


red the blood of angry men (that’ll never come out of the carpet)

by Nemainofthewater, ThebanSacredBand



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crush, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Gen, Hospitals, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Murder Mystery, Poison, Police, Police Incompetence, Police corruption, Private Investigators, Spies & Secret Agents, i don't know if that's better?, it's actually murder, whodunit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2019-11-18 08:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 25,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18117098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThebanSacredBand/pseuds/ThebanSacredBand
Summary: In the early hours of the morning, Cicero, the housekeeper's boy stumbled across the body of Robert Rogers in the upstairs bedroom.Not to worry though because our intrepid hero Abraham Woodhull is on the case!Starring Abe 'don't-worry-I've-seen-them-do-this-on-tv' Woodhull, Robert 'why-is-this-my-life' Townsend, and Anna 'why-are-all-my-childhood-friends-idiots' Strong.Round robin. Tags updated as the story progressed (as I genuinely have no idea what's going to happen)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a round robin between Nemainofthewater and ThebanSacredBand. The rules:  
> -Chapter are to be between 500 and 2000 words  
> -Chapters are to be posted within two weeks (unless agreed otherwise)  
> -NO SPOILERS!

Robert Rogers was dead. There was no denying that. If you were the sort of person to crack open a textbook and search for a picture of ‘dead’, you would find an image not unlike Robert Rogers with the word DEAD in bright letters for younger readers and the not-very-bright.

 

With a purple swollen face and a pool of vomit slowly congealing next to him, Robert Rogers wasn’t having a very good day. In fact, once the housekeeper’s boy, Cicero, found the body in the early hours of the morning it rather spoilt the day for everyone.

 

Take for example our hero Abraham Woodhull. A young man in his prime, Abraham (or as he liked to be called, Abe) was lying face down on his kitchen table nursing a terrible hangover as young men are wont to do and wondering how he let Caleb talk him into things these sorts of things when he heard the news.

 

The fact that it was kindly imparted to him via the medium of his childhood friend Anna Strong bursting into the kitchen and impatiently shaking Abe’s shoulder did nothing for his headache.

 

“But why should I care?” Abe asked pitifully five minutes later, nursing a cup of coffee strong enough to strip paint that Anna had made for him, “I don’t even know who he is!”

 

Anna glared at him, and Abe hastily took another sip of coffee, choosing the lesser evil.

 

“Weren’t you listening to a word I was saying?” she demanded, “Cicero was the one who found him!”

 

Probably not the Roman philosopher.

 

Recognising the confused look on Abe’s face (surprisingly hard to do despite the fact Abe spent the vast majority of his life in one state of befuddlement or another), Anna’s exasperation only grew.

 

“Abigail’s son,” she said impatiently, “He’s helping her out at the big house during the summer holidays.”

 

“Oh, right,” Abe said weakly. He still had no idea who Cicero, or in indeed Abigail, was but he was unwilling to admit it.

 

“You’re a private detective, aren’t you?” Anna said, “I need you to earn your living and actually detect for once. If there’s a choice between arresting a black teenager or a white rich guy, who do you think they’re going to choose?”

 

Abe opened his mouth.

 

“That was a rhetorical question!” Anna snapped.

 

“I mean,” Abe said, “I take pictures of cheating spouses! I think that dead bodies are a little above my pay grade. Can’t you ask someone else?”

 

The realisation that one is whining like a three-year-old unfortunately does little to stop it from happening.

 

“Who am I supposed to ask?” Anna asked waspishly, “Ben and Caleb? They’re working on that hush hush mission they think we don’t know about- “

 

“Wait what mission?”

 

“-And Mary’s got enough on her plate what with trying to put herself through law school and looking after her son at the same time.”

 

“I’m sure you have other friends.”

 

“I can see that going well: ‘Hi Cynthia from yoga, I know that we only casually chat after class, but would you care to look at a dead body with me?’ Don’t be stupid Woodhull.”

 

“I mean I get your point,” Abe said weakly, “But I really don’t think I can do this.”

 

“No, not on your own,” Anna agreed, “I only really need your PI credentials to get a foot in the door. And I called in a favour.”

 

The kitchen door opened reluctantly.

 

“I’m not any happier about than you,” Robert Townsend said, clutching his thermos flask to his chest like an anchor.

 

Robert Townsend. Robert, on whom Abe had a large and very annoying crush. Annoying in that he always turned into a blathering idiot around Robert, who seemed to have the same level of regard for Abe as one does for a moderately interesting beetle. That Robert.  

 

“Oh,” Abe said weakly, “This will be _fun_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the intrepid trio reach the building in which the murder took place, and Robert Townsend wishes he were anywhere else

“This is definitely _not_ my idea of _fun_.” Said Robert as they walked from the car towards the mansion-cum-hotel that Abigail was the housekeeper of. It was probably the fifth time he’d said it, and he was fairly sure that Abe and Anna weren’t listening to him anymore.

Not that any of their friend group tended to listen to him anyway.

He couldn’t count the number of times he had shouted at Caleb to get down from a table, or mentioned to Anna that he wasn’t sure that taking a seventh shot would be a good idea, or tried to stop Ben from ranting about feminism when two thunderous-looking thugs had just appeared around a corner.

They never listened to him, and somehow he always got drawn into whatever shenanigans they had come up with. A game of the-floor-is-lava or a tequila shot or a flight through back alleys. Or, apparently, a murder investigation.

It _should_ have been a lot easier to say no. He didn’t dislike Anna, but he wouldn’t say he was particularly close to her. He’d told her that it sounded like something the police should do. That he didn’t want to get involved, that it wasn’t his business.

Then she’d had the gall to look him in the eye and say “Well, no, but I suppose it is _Abe’s_ business.”

Ah, Abraham Woodhull, Private Investigator. Therein lay the crux of the matter.

When Abe had sat down across the bar from Robert and revealed his big plan of dropping out of college to become a PI, it had been all Robert could do not to laugh in his face. Fortunately, he had a good amount of skill keeping his expression neutral. Especially around Abraham.

Abraham, for all his childhood dreams of being a spy, was the least subtle person Robert had ever met. And yet, somehow, he was a complete enigma to Robert. Abe wore his heart on his sleeve. He was always telling his friends how much he cared about them. All of them except Robert. In fact, he barely seemed to speak at all when Robert was around, and when he did he messed up his words as if there was nothing he had to say. And yet, he kept wanting to spend time with Robert.

And despite himself, Robert wanted to spend time with him. And so he had to keep his expression schooled into something nonchalant at all times.

It wasn’t a crush, no. Of course not. How could it possibly be? Abraham was useless, and foolish, and honest, and endearing, and sweet, and… ah.

Anyway, now was certainly _not_ the time to be thinking about this, because he had ended up saying yes to Anna's badgering to join them, and now they were approaching the scene of a murder. There was literally a dead man.

The police were already bustling around when the trio arrived at the crime scene, marking off a cordon just outside the building. Abraham stopped abruptly.

“The _police_ are there, Anna, what are we supposed to do now?” He whined. Anna rolled her eyes. Robert took a swig from his thermos. It had 5 shots of espresso in it and would hopefully start effecting him soon – he closed the bar at 3 am and now it was 8:30. He wasn’t designed to function on this little sleep. Especially not when Abe was around.

“Just say you’re a PI asked to investigate by the family of the boy who found the body who are scared that he will be erroneously accused because of the colour of his skin because of the rampant systematic racism in the American police force and it's your duty as an upstanding citizen to-”

“Maybe just say you’ve been asked to take a look at it by a close friend.” Robert interrupted Anna’s tirade, because he was fairly sure if he didn’t then Abraham would repeat what Anna said verbatim and then they definitely wouldn’t be allowed near the body.

Abe nodded, as if trying to show he knew exactly what he was doing. Unfortunately for him, Robert could read him, and could easily tell that he had absolutely no idea what was going on. How on earth he was surviving as a PI, Robert did not know. He sighed and took another sip of coffee. He was nowhere near awake enough for this.

“Never mind, let’s just go down there and I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” said Anna, and she started walking towards the police cordon. Robert and Abe glanced at each-other, before hurrying after her, catching up just as she reached the yellow tape and attempted to duck under it.

“Oh, you’re not allowed to be here, Miss.” Said a nervous-looking policeman. Anna just ignored him and kept going. “Please, Miss, this is a murder investigation.”

Robert hovered on the outer side of the cordon. As much as he would do almost anything to help Abra- to help his friends, he still had some sense of not wanting to break the law and get arrested. Abraham had stayed with him, to his relief. Let Anna get arrested, he and Abraham could just go home and pretend nothing happened.

The policeman was shouting, but not actually doing anything, and Anna started walking towards the door unimpeded. That was, until someone else walked out of the door.

“Officer Baker, what is all this racket about? We’re trying to interview the possible suspects!” The man shouted, but then he stopped abruptly when he noticed Anna. “I… Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked, his cheeks immediately burning bright red. Robert watched as Anna cocked her hip out a little. He could only see her back, but could hear her clearly enough.

“Oh thank you, sir, I’m Anna, I’m a good friend of Abigail’s and I thought I would come with her in her time of need.” And oh yes, Anna had definitely noticed the blush, and she was definitely playing with that fact. Robert had seen her flirt at his bar often, most frequently with her (now-ex) boyfriend Selah, who had seemed, at least from Robert’s point of view, to have nothing in common with her except a surname.

The blushing man ran a hand through his hair, seeming even more flustered. “Of- of course, Miss Anna, that would be absolutely fine! My name is Captain Edmund Hewlett, I’m in charge of the investigation here.”

Robert couldn’t see Anna’s face, but he was fairly certain she was fluttering her eyelashes at him.

“Oh thank you so much, Captain Hewlett. I do hope Abigail’s alright, it must have been quite a shock. And,” here she paused, and half turned her body, gesturing towards where he and Abe were standing not too far away, “I don’t suppose you could let my friends in as well, please Captain? Abraham is a private detective, and Robert is his assistant,” Abe waved at the mention of his name. Robert took another sip of coffee to hide the fact that he really, really did not want to be there, “and I promised Abigail I would get them to have a look as well, just for her peace of mind, not that I think you won’t be able to do your job, of course, it’s just that Abigail was so scared…”

She turned back to Hewlett with a flourish, ‘tripping’ on nothing at all and catching herself on his shoulders. It was all Robert could do not to laugh. He could not believe that a police captain – and one with investigative duties no less! – was falling for this.

Hewlett swallowed a few time, looking down at Anna’s imploring eyes, before suddenly shaking his head as if to clear it and helping her up. “Of course, come on in, men.” Robert sighed, and lifted the cordon for Abe to duck under before going himself. Anna had said she would need them to help her get in, but she had managed to do that completely on her own. Yet again, Robert could not help but wish that he was anywhere but here.  “I’ll take Miss Anna here to her dear friend, and you can go upstairs and talk to my colleague, Lieutenant Simcoe. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: yes let's do a modern AU, that way I don't have to do any research  
> Me: (frantically googles US police rankings)
> 
> Anyway I have essays to write but let's face it, I wouldn't be working on them on a Friday night anyway.  
> Have fun Nemainofthewater!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert Roger's murder has more repercussions. George Washington sends in a crack team of agents to investigate.

“Gentlemen,” George Washington said gravely, “It appears that we’ve got a problem.”

 

The long-standing Director of the CIA, George Washington was aware of the many ironies that life dealt. He had starting from a young age thanks to his parents’ _very bad_ sense of humour when they named him after the revolutionary General, and his certainty that not only was the Universe sentient, but it enjoyed messing with him in particular continued to grow with each passing year.

 

Case in point: his most trusted staff were young, intelligent, fiercely loyal, and eager to prove themselves. However, collectively they also possessed the common sense and self-preservation instincts of a lemming.

 

Hamilton was his right hand, the man on whom they all depended. He was able to read, retain, and condense an amazing amount of information in a very short amount of time, to the point that George suspected that he never slept. Not, strike that he knew for a fact that Hamilton never slept.

 

Laurens was their spitfire, always ready to jump into the fray, defend the innocent etc etc. While admirable, George wasn’t certain whether he’d ever be able to drum the fact that being so conspicuous wasn’t actually a good quality in a spy into that boy’s head.

 

Hale looked the most unassuming of the lot, although between Brewster’s beard and Hamilton’s racoon eyes that didn’t actually count for much. He was the genial stranger at the bar, ready to lend a sympathetic ear to any plight, and then use whatever information imparted to him to crack open their personal lives with an unbecoming glee. George refused to think about whatever blackmail material Hale most likely had on him. It was safer that way.

 

Brewster and Tallmadge had come from the same small town in New Jersey, had gone to college together, and had joined the academy together. Brewster, a gregarious man with a kind word for everybody, doted on Tallmadge like a particularly broody hen. And thank god because Tallmadge had even fewer survival instincts than Hamilton. He had a young man’s impetuousness and arrogance, although in him it was increased a thousand-fold, and was known for always finding trouble, that Brewster would inevitably have to drag him out of.

 

George had a good team and he knew it. But every single one of them was a headache in human form.

 

At the back of the room, Hale and Brewster didn’t exchange a look and a shared smirk. But George could tell that they wanted to. Tallmadge, at his usual seat at the front of the room, but slightly to the side where he could ‘keep a proper eye on them’ in his own words, glared at them. George approved. Usually their antics were somewhat amusing, especially when focused on poor, uptight Benedict Arnold. But today? Today the stakes were serious.

 

“In the early hours of this morning, British national Robert Rogers was found dead in his hotel room. A full autopsy has not yet been conducted, but it is evident that Mr Rogers did not die of natural causes.”

 

George clicked his mouse, and a blown-up image of the crime scene appeared. The image had been brightened so that the purple of Rogers’ face contrasted luridly with the blue of his coat. Hamilton had potentially gone a bit overboard making the PowerPoint, although in all fairness he had only had 15 minutes to do so before the briefing.

 

Still. That boy was going to rupture something one of these days with the amount that he took upon himself. George wanted to order him to take a day off, but he knew that Hamilton would either protest that all he needed was another coffee, or agree and then be caught by security at 3am asleep at his desk.

 

“What is he wearing?” Tallmadge asked, learning forward and squinting at the screen, “That coat looks military. Marines perhaps?”

 

George nodded at Tallmadge.

 

“Well spotted. Rogers met with a one Lieutenant Simcoe and an unknown third party earlier that day. We don’t know why, but Rogers has long been a person of interest for the CIA. He’s a mercenary, former SAS, implicated in a dozen assassinations around the globe. He specialises in destabilising democratic regimes, allowing despotic parties to swoop and take over the government. We have no idea why he would meet with a police Lieutenant in the Metropolitan Police Department.”

 

“And there’s no information on who the third man was?” Hale asked.

 

“None,” George replied, “We have no footage of the meeting whatsoever. All parties knew what they were doing, the security cameras have been scrubbed.”

 

“You’re telling me that in Washington DC, one of the most scrutinised cities in the country, we weren’t able to get anything? Nobody took a selfie at the right moment, there wasn’t a tour group that caught something suspicious during one of their group shots?”

 

“It appears not Laurens,” George said, “However thank you for volunteering to follow up that lead. Take Hamilton with you, he could do with burning off some energy.”

 

Hamilton shot up, looking indignant.

 

“Sir!” he said, “You know that I want to go out to André’s and investigate. I was the one who dug up their connection, I should be the one to-”

George raised a weary hand.

 

“Sit down Hamilton,” he said.

 

Alexander scowled but did as he was told.

 

“As you can tell we’ve also uncovered a number of worrying connections between Rogers and other members of the community.”

 

Click.

 

Another photo appeared, this time of a handsome man in his mid to late thirties.

 

“John André. Proprietor of the hotel Roger’s was murdered at. Also former SAS. The same unit as Rogers as it happens. He moved to the US five years ago after an honourable discharge.”

 

“That’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it sir?” Brewster asked, balancing on his chair. George wondered sometimes whether he was running some sort of day care centre because lord knows none of his agents had the good sense of god granted a toddler.

 

He raised a single eyebrow. Brewster’s chair came down with a thump, but the man himself looked unrepentant. Small victories George reminded himself.

 

“Indeed,” he said, “We can’t discount the possibility that he may be an undercover MI6 agent.”

 

“Why would the Brits want to spy on us?” Brewster asked.

 

“That, gentlemen, is the question. Tallmadge, Brewster, you’ll be running point on this op. Hale, you’ll be based back here at headquarters handling their mission.”

 

“What!” said Hamilton, “Why do Ben and Caleb have all the fun missions?”

 

Washington ignored him with the ease of long practice.

 

“Brewster and Tallmadge have a valid reason to go back to Setauket. We can say that they want to meet up with their friends, something along those lines. Your friend Abraham Woodhull is a private investigator, correct? You can use him as an excuse to investigate the murders.”

 

“Abe?” Tallmadge asks incredulously, “Abe would never get caught up in a murder investigation. He won’t even watch Elementary with us.”

 

“Wait,” Laurens said slowly from where he was flicking through his tablet, “You said that Lt. Simcoe was from the Metropolitan police department? Then why has he just been seconded to Setauket PD for the duration of this case?”

 

“What?” George asked sharply.

 

“New orders came in from someone very high up. Simcoe has been assigned to the Rogers case. He’s one of the lead investigators underneath a Captain Edmund Hewlett.”

 

“Edmund?” Brewster said, “Poor bastard, growing up with a name like that.”

 

Tallmadge threw a wadded-up piece of paper over at him, nailing him between the eyes.

 

Unperturbed, Brewster crowed: “Nice shot Benny boy!” and threw it right back.

 

“Children!” Washington snapped.

 

Blessed silence reigned.

 

“You’re booked on the 4:15 flight to Westchester County airport. Don’t be late. I assume that you can make your own arrangements for accommodation.”

 

“Yeah, we can just kip at Abe and Anna’s,” Brewster said.

 

“Keep in constant contact with Hale. And be discreet for heaven’s sake, I don’t want this turning into front page news. Not again.”

 

There was a pause as they all remembered The Incident.

 

“Are there any questions?”

 

“Well-” Hamilton said.

 

“Good,” said George, “Dismissed. All of you.”

 

George had a feeling that he’d be nursing a rather severe migraine by the end of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You included my favourites so it's only fair I include yours! Have fun ThebanSacredBand :)
> 
> (PS whaaa-? No of course I didn't put off having to write Simcoe, how dare you accuse me of such)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we are introduced to some of the hotel's more noted guests

Joseph du Motier, of the National Bank of Paris – or rather, Gilbert Lafayette, of Interpol, but that was a secret, obviously – was not having the best time.

To start with, he had not wanted to be sent to the back-end-of-nowhere, New York State. When he had told Chief Bourbon that he had wanted to be sent an international mission, out of the continent, he had not expected to be directed towards a random hotel on the North Coast of Long Island. Apparently several cases of something suspicious had been tracked to one hotel owned by a Mr John André.  And so here Gil was in Setauket, a small town no-one had even heard of. Not quite his American Dream.

But, at least, the hotel was luxurious, a class he was used to considering the money he came from. He was glad they had at least tracked it specifically enough to the hotel – he might have had to stay in an Airbnb!

He finally arrived in the hotel late in the afternoon, jetlagged after a long flight and an even longer (or so it felt, though it wasn’t true in the slightest) boat journey across the sound. His plans to sleep on the plane had been thwarted by the small child in the seat behind him. And really, why would you fly with a toddler? They could at least have the decency to travel privately until it had learnt basic manners.

The screaming child combined with his brain being six hour behind his body had led him to be in not an especially good mood. Of course, he was a professional, and wouldn’t give anything away to the people he met except for his carefully crafted personality – Joseph du Motier, shrewd business man, interested in buying whatever it was that André was selling.

Still, in the light of the following morning, he could not help but worry that his mood had somehow effected his perspective of his fellow guests. His fellow suspects.

Gil ran through the events of the previous day in his head.

He had entered and was greeted personally by Mr André. He was ex-SAS, but longer associated with the British military, at least not as far as Interpol’s extensive research had been able to pull up, and they’d been researching the man for months.

The next person he had met had been a teenager named Cicero, who had carried his bags up to his room. Gil had fallen into easy conversation with the boy. His mother was the housekeeper, and they were both working to put money aside so he could apply to college in a few years’ time. He wanted to study history, to learn about his namesake. He was clearly intelligent and hard-working. Gilbert had made sure to tip him well.

When he had reached his room, he had wanted nothing more than to fall on his bed and take a nap, but he knew that would in no way help remedy his jetlag. He’d only wake up hungry in the middle of the night.

(Maybe that way, he would have heard something useful.)

Instead he had made his way downstairs to the bar. He knew they at least served some meals, and at this point he was less fussy than he may otherwise have been about what he was eating. Anything was better than whatever it was they had attempted to serve him on the flight.

It was still relatively early, with only a few other people eating or drinking. After placing his order (with Cicero, again, the boy was clearly serious about achieving his dreams), Gil was waved over by a large man with a popular moustache, who was sitting beside a small, bespectacled man who looked like he could barely be twenty years old.

“Was that a cultured European accent I just heard?” The man who had waved him over asked, with an obvious German accent. With a start, Gil thought back to the guest list, and realised just who he was talking to.

“Oui, monsieur,” he replied with a polite smile, “I am French. My name is Joseph du Motier, it I a pleasure to meet you.”

“Ah, _Franz_ _ösisch_! Come join us!” Replied the German, pulling out the free chair beside him. “My secretary Pierre here is also French,” he gestured to his company, who was yet to speak, but was looking at Gil curiously, “And I myself am _aus Deutschland_ , although I’m sure you realised that already, Herr du Motier. I am the Baron Von Steuben, call me Friedrich.”

And yes, Gil was right. The infamous Baron Von Steuben. The man had been on Interpol’s watch-list for years. They hadn’t been able to _prove_ that he had done anything, but there were always little hints that he was involved. Not least the fact that he wasn’t actually a Baron and he had been conning people for decades.

Most of Interpol’s staff were certain he was quite mad. Meeting him now, looking him in the eyes as they had polite conversation over dinner, Gil wasn’t so sure.

Gil was good at his job, though – there was a reason he was chosen for this mission, after all – and had not given away the fact he had heard of the man. He had spent an hour or so talking with the pair. Or rather, talking with the “Baron”. His secretary was silent. Gil wasn’t sure he trusted him.

Eventually, his companions had retired, having just landed in the country themselves, and clearly less worried than Gil himself was about overcoming jetlag. But Gil was going to have things to do tomorrow, he needed to at least start to get on a US schedule.

So when his company left, Gil had made his way over to the bar and ordered a glass of wine. (He was pleased to see that Cicero was no longer there. The boy deserved at least some time to relax.) (He was also pleased to discover that Mr André was a man with a good taste in wine.)

And so Gil had settled himself down at the bar to people-watch. Maybe, he thought, he would get lucky and catch something happening today, although he doubted people would be so brazen around strangers. But who knew? Many an illegal dealing took place behind an expensive smile.

He sipped his wine, glancing around the room. He had, of course, looked at the guest list before he arrived, but seeing people come and go in person was a different thing altogether. He was sure, at one point, he had glimpsed former CIA agent Charles Lee, who had been fired for incompetency after a public trial. Further down the bar, a strong Scottish accent had ordered a dram of whisky. Gil had glanced over to see a stocky man with a worn, scarred face, and looked away quickly. He had only heard dangerous things about Robert Rogers.

“You look lonely, hun,” came a woman’s voice beside him. He turned to find a blonde woman sliding onto the seat beside him. “Mind if I join you?” She ordered herself a drink before giving him the chance to say anything. Not that he would have. He probably shouldn’t stereotype, but she seemed the type who would gossip.

He was right, although she seemed to like to gossip more about herself, which was a shame as Gil had been hoping to see if she knew anything about their fellow guests.

It turned out that Philomena Cheer was a 25 year old from Ohio, who had moved to New York to find fame and fortune on Broadway. She hadn’t found the former, and Gil couldn’t quite work out how she’d come upon enough of the latter to stay in a hotel like this. Or why she’d want to be in a hotel in Setauket when she could be treading the Boards in New York City.

In the end, it only took Ms Cheer a few drinks before she told him. And, more importantly, had told him some interesting information about their host.

“And John, oh, John, supported me so much you know. Even let me stay here for free whenever I want to. And he didn’t officially rescind it when he decided I wasn’t _good enough_ anymore, so here I am.” She gave a fake-sounding laugh. Gil murmured his apologies. She didn’t seem to listen.

“Instead he’s taken up that _slut_.” She spat the word, and gestured with her chin to a table in the corner where, while they had been talking, John André had sat down with another pretty young blonde woman. Mr André had a _type_ , apparently.

As he watched, André leaned forward, and the woman he was with threw her head back with a laugh. Beside him, Philomena growled.

“His darling Peggy Shippen. Well, she might have been ‘Miss Shippen’ when they met but she’s Mrs Arnold now, I tell you. And I told him too, of course, and he doesn’t _believe_ me. Or he doesn’t care. And she _obviously_ doesn’t care, look how she’s all over him! And…”

Gilbert tuned out the woman beside him, only nodding and murmuring occasionally, as he focused on watching the couple out of the corner of his eye. They were closer together now, and though they were too far away for Gil to even hope to read their lips. He could clearly see the expression on each of their faces was nothing short of adoration. Miss Shippen, or Mrs Arnold, or whoever she was, had a hand laid on one of André’s wrists, their other hands clasped across the table.

It made Gilbert miss Adrienne.

He shook his head. Why was he thinking about such things? He must be more jetlagged than he had thought. He glanced at his phone. It was almost ten o’clock, surely an acceptable time to go to bed at last.

He begged his leave of Philomena, apologising for his tiredness, and headed back upstairs.

 

That is what had happened the night before. That is what he should have told the police. He should definitely have told the interviewer, a Captain Hewlett, that he was here on a mission from Interpol, and he therefore had diplomatic immunity.

He did neither of those things. He had a feeling that he might be able to get to the bottom of whatever was going on better if the other guests thought he was in the same situation as them.

As he watched a new, probably local woman come in, twisting Hewlett around her little finger, and two men go up the staircase towards the crime scene, he thought to himself that there was probably a lot more to this whole situation than met the eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that's all the key players introduced now.  
> Also I couldn't be bothered to google anything about Interpol so like, dramatic licence or something.  
> Your turn now Nemainofthewater ;p  
> (Who's Simcoe?)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Edmund's investigative instincts are put to the test, and he does not have a crush. Not at all.

“And who’s this then?”

 

Lt Simcoe’s eyes raked up and down Ms Strong, and Edmund hastily placed himself between them, carefully avoiding touching Ms Strong. Unless that in itself was insulting? Would it be worse to accidentally brush against her and be thought a cad, or to blatantly avoid touching her and be mistaken for rude? No. He had more important things to worry about. Lt Simcoe for one.  

 

Edmund Hewlett didn’t know much about Lt Simcoe, only that the Powers-That-Be had sent the man, along with a strongly worded memo that was as good as an order, that morning, instructing him that Lt Simcoe was to be one of the lead investigators on the murder case.

 

In the course of a normal investigation, as a Captain, Edmund wouldn’t even be in the field. He would have pawned it off on some eager young detective, ready to make their mark on the force by solving a gruesome murder or two. This was in fact what Edmund had been planning on doing, allow Baker or Clayton to take point on their first high profile case. In fact, Edmund hadn’t decided to personally take on the case until he was staring into Simcoe’s cold, reptilian eyes.

 

Why would the higher ups be so concerned with one murder? It was a tragedy of course, in the way that all murders were. But Rogers was hardly the sort of person to warrant a special investigator. Especially one with so lukewarm a career as Simcoe, who had hardly any closed cases to his name and who was assigned to Vice back in Washington DC.

 

Something didn’t add up. Edmund was a good detective. And as every detective knows, if they survive long enough to make it to Captain, one should never ignore one’s instincts. This was no exception.

 

“A concerned member of the community,” he said, and er. He gestured at two gentlemen following her, hovering awkwardly in the doorway, unsure whether they should bother entering or whether they were going to be summarily kicked out. Edmund had no idea who they were really: they had just trailed after Anna like a pair of befuddled ducklings.

 

A private detective and his assistant is what Anna had introduced them as. He had a feeling that neither explanation was going to go down well with Simcoe. In any case, Edmund which one was the private detective, and which one was the assistant. Neither of them looked that impressive. He would wager that his horse, Bucephalus, had more investigative skills than they did. And, as much as he loved Bucephalus, he had to admit that the stallion was extremely dumb.

 

“Her associates,” Edmund finished weakly.

 

“Anna Strong,” Anna said confidently, brushing past Edmund to extend a hand, “A pleasure.”

 

“Lieutenant John Simcoe,” the other man replied, smiling.

 

“Charmed I’m sure,” Anna said, also smiling politely, face a mask. She also, after having reclaimed her hand from Simcoe’s limp grasp, discreetly wiped it on her jeans. Edmund was ashamed to say that a bolt of relief rushes through him in that moment.

 

Neither of Anna’s friends bothered to introduce themselves. Edmund wasn’t sure whether they too were feeling the awkward intensity in the air, or perhaps whether they were so sleep deprived that they weren’t entirely cognisant of what was going on. The fact that one of them had a look of mild panic on his face and that the other was clutching a thermos flask with a literally trembling hand gave credence to the second theory.

 

“Shall we proceed?” Edmund interjected hastily.

 

“Of course, Captain,” the lieutenant said, not turning away from his intense scrutiny of Anna “Do lead the way.”

 

Edmund did so, ignoring the fact that Simcoe was trying to get a rise out of him by ordering his superior officer about. He was the bigger man. And the fact that Anna immediately broke off her staring contest and went to follow him was extremely gratifying.

 

“Now,” Edmund said, “I can’t let you see any actual details regarding the case. Not in an ongoing investigation, and not to civilians no matter how qualified they are.”

 

“As I said before Captain,” Anna said, “My friend Abe is a private detective by trade, and I am certain that Abigail Victor, Cicero’s mother, is intending to hire him to help investigate the case.”

 

Edmund frowned.

 

“I assure you,” he said “That the Setauket police department has this entirely under control. This is our job Ms Strong, and we don’t intend to half-ass it, pardon my language.”

 

Edmund is half certain that he heard Anna’s friend with the thermos flash mutter, ‘oh for Heaven’s sake, not another one’ but in the interest of community engagement elected to ignore it.

 

“Of course I have every faith in the police,” Anna said, “But it would really put Abigail’s mind at rest to know that there as many eyes as possible looking at this. After all, the police can’t be everywhere at once. And Cicero is due to start college soon: he’s a bright boy, Captain. He doesn’t deserve to have something like this hanging over his head for the rest of his life.

 

“Well,” he said uncertainly, “I suppose if Ms Victor were to hire, Abraham it it? Yes Abraham, then we could come to some sort of arrangement.”

 

Simcoe snorted. It was an inelegant and clearly practised noise, loud enough to be heard but not so loud that it couldn’t be excused as a particularly violent sneeze.

 

“I’m certain I know exactly what sort of arrangement you have in mind,” he said in a sotto voice. Not quietly enough that Edmund couldn’t hear it though. Hear the words and the unfathomable layers denigrating everything from his professionalism to his libido. That was the last straw.

 

“Lt Simcoe,” Edmund snapped, “I really think that your talents may be put to better use helping Baker take statements so that we can begin to clear the suspect pool. And when you return from that absolutely vital task, I hope that you’ll have a better attitude.”

 

Simcoe froze, a contemptuous set to his lips. He looked offended, that a mere police Captain from a small town, dared to command him, an urbane detective from Washington DC, the nation’s capital, superior officer or not.

 

“Very well…sir,” he said. And turned around to leave without further protest, polished shoes clacking angrily on the fancy marble floors of the hotel’s stairway. Abe and his assistant fell back mutely, allowing him to pass between them.

 

Edmund heaved a silent sigh of relief: he wasn’t entirely sure that Simcoe would obey him. No doubt he will catch hell for this show of authority late, but for now he can’t be bothered worrying about future problems. Hopefully by the time they materialise he can point to a closed case and a strong conviction and the whole point will be rendered moot.

 

“Well Ms Strong,” Edmund said, “Shall we go and find your friend?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find the statements of notable hotel staff and guests

 

 

> Victim: Mr Robert Rogers, 33, occupation unknown, hotel guest on 4th night of stay 
> 
> Statements from hotel staff and guests staying on same floor as Mr Rogers, as taken by Officer Baker ( _with notes)_.
> 
>   * Cicero Victor, 15, housekeeper’s son, student, works at hotel in free time
> 

> 
> Went home at 7:30pm after finishing his shift. Did homework and went to bed around 10pm.  Woke up at 7am and arrived at work at 9am. Did some cleaning in the halls, then went to Rogers’ room, as he had left a note asking to be woken up at 10am. Knocked on door and it opened, having not been fully latched. Saw several chairs had been knocked over, went further in to find Rogers dead on the bed. Immediately left to tell Mr André.
> 
> Had not interacted with Rogers outside of occasionally serving him food.
> 
> _(First person to see Rogers dead!)_
> 
>   * Ms Abigail Victor, 34, housekeeper.
> 

> 
> Worked cleaning rooms and preparing those of newly-arrived guests all day. Worked at the bar from 7:30pm when her son Cicero Victor finished his shift. Served various patrons, including Mr Rogers. Mr du Motier and Miss Cheer sat at bar and talked for around an hour but Ms Victor did not hear what was being said. Shut bar at 1:30. Rogers was only guest still there. Watched him go back to his room, then went home. Lives in small cottage on the edge of the property, courtesy of Mr André’s generosity, which she is very thankful for. Son already asleep when she arrived – she checked. Went to bed around 2am. Woke up at 10am, arrived at the hotel to find alarm already up about Roger’s demise.
> 
> _(Last person to see Rogers alive!)_
> 
>   * Mr John André, 35, hotel owner and manager.
> 

> 
> Stayed in the bar until around midnight, talking to ‘long-time friend’ Ms Shippen, then walked Ms Shippen to her room and retired to bed alone. Lives in fully-furnished attic apartment, accessed only by a private corridor. Doesn’t recall seeing anything out of the ordinary at the bar or on his way upstairs. Woke up at 7am, saw nothing that struck him as out of the ordinary. No guests checked out.  Alerted to Roger’s demise by Cicero Victor running down the stairs at 10am.
> 
> Knew Rogers as colleague from SAS _(look into this in more detail)_ , but not on close terms. Left SAS before Rogers. Had talked with Rogers upon his arrival and infrequently afterwards.
> 
>   * Ms Peggy Shippen, 28, heiress, guest on 9th night of stay.
> 

> 
> Corroborates Mr André’s statement of talking together in bar until around midnight. Focused mostly on André, but did notice Miss Cheer and especially Mr du Motier staring at them intently. Says that Miss Cheer seems to hate her, but unsure why. Mr André walked her to her room then continued to her own. Was still in bed when alarm went up at 10am.
> 
> Had seen Rogers around the hotel, but not spoken with him.
> 
>   * Mr Charles Lee, 57, private security manager, guest on 3rd night of stay.
> 

> 
> Arrived back from appointment in town around 9pm. Went into bar and looked around, but didn’t see anyone he knew so went up to bed and ordered room-service wine around 10:30. Delivered by housekeeper Abigail Victor. Saw no-one and heard nothing else. Went to bed around 1am. Was still in bed when alarm went up at 10am.
> 
> Recognises Roger’s name from somewhere unspecified _(sounds rather suspicious if you ask me)_ , claims only to have seen him around the hotel but did not know his name. Had not interacted with him.
> 
>   * Mr Joseph du Motier, 26, banker, guest on 1st night of stay.
> 

> 
> Arrived at hotel around 6pm, greeted by Mr André, bags carried by Cicero Victor “a very polite young man”. Went down to bar around 6:45. Ate with Baron Von Steuben and his secretary. They retied around 8pm due to jet lag. Motier went to bar with a glass of wine to “watch ze people”. Joined by Miss Cheer around 9pm. Saw Mr André and Ms Shippen talking. Retired around 9:45pm due to jet lag. Fell asleep quickly and woke up at 8am. Walked into town to get fresh air and breakfast, and returned to find Cicero running down the stairs shouting at 10am.
> 
> Never heard of Rogers, recognises photograph as someone he saw ordering whiskey at the bar.
> 
>   * Miss Philomena Cheer, 25, actress, guest on 23rd night of stay.
> 

> 
> Staying at hotel on favour owed her Mr André. _(Gave long-winded description of early life and theatre roles which is of no bearing to current investigation)_. Previous night she had arrived at bar around 9pm and joined Mr du Motier at the bar. They had talked about her career and then the pair had seen Mr André and Ms Shippen in the corner and she had told Mr du Motier that Ms Shippen is married _(!! INVESTIGATE THIS)._ Mr du Motier went upstairs around 10pm and she had stayed there watching “my André and that slut” until the pair retied at around midnight. Went to bed herself soon after. Woke at 9am, was eating breakfast at the bar when alarm went up.
> 
> Tried to speak to Rogers once, but he told her to go away “very rudely” and she had made no attempt to talk to him since.
> 
>   * Friedrich Wilhelm August Heinrich Ferdinand, Baron von Steuben, 47, Baron, guest on 1st night of stay
> 

> 
> Arrived at hotel around 4pm with secretary Mr Ponceau, greeted by Mr André. Pair went down to bar around 6pm, ate, invited Mr du Motier to join around 7pm – hadn’t met before but ‘knew they would be great friends because Mr du Motier is French’. He and Mr Ponceau retired to their rooms around 8pm due to jet lag. Woken up by Mr Ponceau at 7am, had a morning coffee and the pair went on a walk of the grounds. Returned inside at 10:30am to find the house in uproar.
> 
> Had never heard of nor seen Rogers.
> 
>   * Mr Pierre-Etienne du Ponceau, 21, secretary to the Baron von Steuben, guest on 1st night of stay
> 

> 
> _(Mr Ponceau appears not to speak English)_

Baker twisted his hands as Lieutenant Simcoe read his notes. A vein in the Lieutenant’s forehead seemed to be pulsing. It was really quite fascinating. Abruptly, Simcoe looked up.

“Honestly Officer Baker, these notes are terrible and your comments are inane.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, was there something else I should have mentioned?”

“Mannerisms! Were they crying, or looking guilty, or things like that! Not ‘exclamation mark exclamation mark investigate this all in capital letters’.”

“But sir, they’ve all just found out someone died on the floor they were staying on. Surely any form of looking nervous, or being upset, is just natural! It’s not like they’re all suspects!”

Simcoe’s eyes bulged, and Baker took a few steps back without thinking. He did not want to cross this strange man who had been appointed to this case from the city for no reason he could make out.

“Having just seen the CCTV footage of the staircase, these were the only people who were on that floor between Rogers being alive and being dead. There are our only suspects. And now I’m going to have to interview them again because of your utter incapability.”

“What about CCTV on the corridor? That would make things easier.”

“Do you _think_ … that I haven’t checked to see if they have cameras in the corridor? I am not an _idiot_ , Baker, unlike you, apparently.”

Baker gulped. He needed to get away from this strange man and his scary eyes.

“Of course, Lieutenant. I’ll… I’ll just go find Officer Hewlett, and see what he wants me to do now.”

He’d like to say that he left calmly. That was not true. It would be more accurate to say he turned tail and ran.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried something a bit different here and I'm not sure how much I like it but... oh well I've committed now. Hope you enjoy it :)  
> IRL Ponceau was 17 when he moved to America but I thought 21 would be slightly less weird?  
> Baker's notes are inspired by the notes I write to myself when I write essays 
> 
> Nemainofthewater hope you like my Simcoe avoidance technique :P I'm sure you can get away with not dealing with him next chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben and Caleb arrive in Setauket

“Finally,” Ben said, storming out of the airport. He didn’t like flying. Not at all. People were generally noisy and inconsiderate, there was always a screaming toddler somewhere, and Caleb’s idea of help was generally to see how many mini-bottles of alcohol he could wheedle out of the air crew before they cut him off. Something that Ben couldn’t even enjoy because Caleb was annoyingly good at rock-paper-scissors and he had lost their quick game to determine who was going to be the one to drive the rental.

“Come on Benny boy, don’t be like that!” Caleb said, throwing a companionable arm around Ben’s shoulder, “There’ll be plenty of booze for the both of us when we get to Abe’s house. The good stuff as well, not that cheap swill they pawned off on me on the flight.”

“Caleb,” Ben said, “We’re working. We’re investigating a murder for god’s sake, not to mention the espionage and treason. Would it kill you to be a bit more serious?”

Caleb’s grin remained firmly fixed upon his face, but a shadow passed over his eyes.

Damn. Ben hadn’t meant to say that. He knew, better than anyone, that Caleb used his cheer as a defensive mechanism. He had been the one to drive him to his therapy sessions after the Incident that had left Caleb a pale shell of himself, obsessively firing round after round at the range at headquarters. Had camped out at Caleb’s for three months, claiming (not very convincingly) that his place was being fumigated so that he could wake him at the first sign of nightmares. Had spent hours reassuring him that no, of course he didn’t blame him for breaking under torture. No one could prepare for that. It wasn’t his fault.

“In any case,” Ben said quickly, “I thought that we could go up to André’s hotel and have a nice long drinking session there. Scope out the place, see what we’ve working with. “

The shadow passed and Caleb laughed, a gleeful, boyish sound.

“You always have the best ideas!”

“And I figure if we’re careful,” said Ben conspiratorially, “Then we can bill it all to the CIA.”

*

The drive to Abe’s house didn’t take long at all. It was strange being back home, although when Ben mentioned it Caleb pointed out that they’d literally been there a week ago for a visit. 

That was different though. That had been ostensibly to celebrate Abe’s birthday, but really to catch up with their friends and see how long it would take Abe and Robert to get over themselves and hook-up (at least a decade was the general consensus). This… this was coming home in a professional capacity, potentially investigating people they’d known all their lives, people they were friends with. 

“Stop thinking so hard Ben. Worrying only makes you suffer twice, you know.”

Ben stared at Caleb incredulously, only returning his attention back to the road after a large truck took the opportunity to violently overtake him.

“Did you seriously just quote Fantastic Beasts at me?” he asked. He hated that film. Hated it. The idea that a terrorist leader could just infiltrate an organisation for presumably months or years without being noticed… Well when you worked in the field he did that sort of thing hit a bit close to home. 

Caleb was unrepentant. 

“I loved that film,” he said, “Gives me hope that I can be a wizard one day, despite my terrible English accent.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Ben said, “It’s not the fact that magic doesn’t exist or that you’re a spy not an actor that stands between you and starring in a Harry Potter film. It’s that you can’t do a convincing English accent?”

“Don’t be stupid Ben. I wouldn’t want to star in a film: just a cameo would do me.”

Ben rolled his eyes as he pulled into Abe’s driveway. 

“If this is leading to another Harry Potter marathon, count me out.”

“Don’t be a spoil sport. We had a great time at our last marathon!”

“It was almost twenty hours straight of Hamilton lecturing us about the books while we were trying to watch the film. I think by hour three, even Laurens wanted to murder him.”

“Either that or shut him up another way,” Caleb said, wriggling his eyebrows up and down obscenely.

“Ugh. I can’t believe that we’re surrounded by so many oblivious morons. It’s like being back in high school.”

“Speaking of which… WOODY!” Caleb yelled joyfully in the general direction of the house.

No reply.

“Well he’s definitely not home,” said Ben, “Because I’m sure that you could have literally woken the dead.”

“He’ll be back eventually,” said Caleb, “Until then we can just break in and drop our stuff off.”

“Or,” said Ben, “We could ring him like normal human beings and ask him where he is?”

“But where would the fun in that be?”

Ben’s lips twitched. 

“Fine. You take the back door, I’ll take the front. We’ll see who can get in first. Loser covers drinks for the evening.”

“The drinks that we’re putting on the company card? That sure you’re going to lose hmm?”

“You wish,” Ben said, already taking his lockpicks from his pocket. They were a gift from Anna, no nonsense stainless steel. She’d presented a set each to Ben, Caleb and Abe, not paying any attention to his weak protests about working in the civil service. Those lockpicks had travelled around the world with Ben and had gotten him out (and in) more scrapes than he cared to admit.

Only… As soon as he put pressure on the door it opened. Ben felt a cold bolt of fear. Had someone broken in to Abe’s house? He made his way into Abe’s house carefully, right hand hovering over his gun.

Nothing looked out of place: the house was as messy as ever. He groaned, relaxing. Knowing Abe the idiot had probably just forgotten to lock the door. Seriously: worst PI ever. Ben loved him, but he had no idea how Abe had survived adulthood this long. 

Ah well. Waste not want not. Ben strolled casually to the back door, and opened it with a flourish, grinning triumphantly down at Caleb.

“So,” he said, “About those drinks.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna talks to Abigail, and finally gets to see the body

After her meeting with the somewhat vile Lieutenant Simcoe, Anna had met with Abigail, and spent a great deal of time trying to comfort one of her oldest friends.

Of course, what appeared to be ‘comfort’ was actually just Abigail filling her in on as much as she could remember about the hotel guests, at a quiet enough volume that Captain Hewlett couldn’t hear from where he was awkwardly watching from the doorway. He seemed to a lot of things awkwardly. It would be almost endearing, if it weren’t for the fact that he was supposed to be in charge of a murder investigation.

They had shared all the information they each had come up with so far, which was tragically little for Anna, although she had been stuck with an overzealous police escort the entire time she’d been there. They agreed that Abigail would go and see if any of the guests needed anything – and perhaps see if they had any information worth sharing – while Anna would go and take a look at the crime scene.

When she made her way over to the door to flirt her way up to Rogers’ bedroom, she was disappointed, but not overly surprised, to see Abe and Robert also awkwardly hanging around in the hallway rather than doing any actually investigation, like she had brought them here to do. She rolled her eyes. She was going to have to do everything herself.

Convincing Hewlett to let her, and by extension her useless friends, see the body was ridiculously easy.

 

Anna had not spent a great deal of time looking at dead bodies, and she was increasingly wishing that she didn’t have to now. But Abigail had asked her to investigate, and if that meant staring at the contorted purple-ish figure lying on the floor of a hotel room, then so be it.

She was somehow in front of Abe and Robert (who were the ones who were _supposed_ to be doing this investigation, damn it!) which meant that she was uncomfortable close to Rogers’ corpse. And the smell. Oh god, the smell. That was going to take a long time to come out.

The pathologist, who Captain Hewlett had briefly gestured to as something-or-other Sackett, finally stood up from where he was crouched over the body. He cleared his throat.

“It was poison.” Anna blinked. Of course it was poison. The man was purple and lying in a pool of his own vomit. “I’ll be able to work out what type when I get the sample back to the lab.”

Anna stared up at the ceiling, willing something to give her strength. She could probably work out what type of poison it was from a quick google search. Why was she _constantly_ surrounded by idiots?

“Well, now we’ve established that, Miss Anna, why don’t we get out of here and let forensics do their work, hmm?” Captain Hewlett, the poor man, seemed to be turning an alarming shade of green. She should probably go out with him just to stop him contaminating Rogers’ vomit with his own. How was this man a police captain?

She quickly scanned the room. There was a decanter of whiskey on the desk, along with several used glasses – had he had guests around? – and an empty water bottle on the bedside table. Any of these could have held the poison, she supposed, although given that she hadn’t yet had opportunity to google the symptoms she didn’t know how fast-acting it was. He could have been poisoned at any point before going up to his room.

Still, the glasses and bottle were a good start, and hopefully at least one person in the department was sensible enough to do some forensic testing on them.

“Of course, captain, let’s the pair of us get out of here.” She smiled warmly at him, then flashed a look at Abe and Robert which hopefully portrayed how angry she would be if they didn’t stay in there to look for more, less obvious, clues.

As Hewlett led her away she whipped out her phone, determined to do some research to find out what this poison was before Sackett did. Instead, she was greeted by a messenger notification.

A picture came up on screen of Ben and Caleb in front of Abe’s front door. The message underneath read:

> Hey Annie Bennyboy and me have come to visit where r u guys at we ll come meet u btw Abe left his door unlocked again lmao

Anna rolled her eyes. Trust Caleb to not be able to use any form of punctuation. Then she froze. Because Abe hadn’t locked that door this morning, of course he hadn’t, it was a bad habit of his. But Anna _had_ locked the door after pushing her reluctant co-investigators out of the house.

She reached for her pocket. Her copy of Abe’s key was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert has a drink.

Robert was certain that he was on several government watchlists. Years of being Anna Strong’s friend had made sure of that. His Google History was a litany of: ‘How much blood can a person lose before dying’, or ‘How far does blood splatter once a knife is removed from the carotid artery’, or ‘What are the symptoms of an overdose in an individual with pancreatic cancer’.

 

It had never really bothered him. Because honestly the government is utterly corrupt and has doubtlessly tracking _everyone_ ’s internet usage for years, and if they had wanted to be run by something better than a faceless, shadowy power then they should have voted better when they had the chance.

 

(He had maybe expanded on this quite a bit over the years over after-work beers. And there are potentially videos of one of his rants that have made it to YouTube, courtesy of Caleb.)

 

So honestly, when Anna swept out of the room, gathering Abe in her wake, and demanded that he: “Do something useful for once, and look up what could have poisoned Rogers,” he just accepted it as par for the course and got googling.

 

An hour later he regretted that instinctive obedience: he had seen things that he could never un-see. It turned out that poisons messed the body up, badly. Extremely badly. God he was glad that he had become a bar owner instead of a dermatologist no matter what his father had wanted. There were some things that man was never meant to discover.

 

“Are you ok?” a lightly accented voice asked. Robert looked blearily up from where he had settled himself at the bar, instinctively shielding his phone from view with one hand. The speaker was a young, black man clad in a fashionably suit and with a thick-rimmed pair of glasses perched on his nose. He had a look of polite concern on his face. Robert was immediately suspicious.

 

“I’m fine, Mr…?”

 

The man immediately extended an arm and pumped Robert’s hand enthusiastically.

 

“Joseph du Motier,” he said, “Please, do not call me Joe. I am afraid that I was called that all through childhood and I have been left with a hatred of the diminutive.”

 

“Robert Townsend,” Robert instinctively replied, in a kind of daze. Surely people didn’t actually speak like that? Where had this man learnt his English?

 

“A pleasure to meet you.”

 

The man placed a couple of glasses of whiskey on the table in front on him with a large THUNK.

 

“Here,” he said, “On me. You look like you need it.”

 

Robert stared at the glass. On the one hand, he had no idea where Anna or Abe were or why they had left so quickly, he had a murder to (unwillingly) solve, and he had a bar to open at some point. On the other, he had had a very long day and there was free alcohol.

 

The choice was simple. In any case, Anna didn’t really need him. He had seen that today when he had spent his time standing around being useless. They hadn’t even replied to any of his increasingly frantic _are you alright???_ texts.

 

Who knew what they were doing. Probably solving the case together and having a laugh at his expense. Him and Captain Hewlett, two fools in love.

 

Making his mind up, he quickly typed into his phone _ricin. Probably injected (discoloration???)_ then he picked up the glass of whisky and toasted du Motier.

 

“To your health,” he said, slamming the entire glass back.

 

“I can see you needed it,” du Motier said. He stood and made his way to the bar where he had a quiet conversation with the barman, before returning with a full bottle of whisky. He poured Robert another glass of the amber liquid, politely waiting until Robert had picked his refilled glass up before sipping his own.

 

“Here,” he said, “Let us share this, and then you can tell me about your problems, yes? You look like a man burdened.”

 

Robert nodded glumly. He could already feel the drink going to his head: evidentially spending a day fuelled on caffeine and unrequited longing wasn’t a very smart thing to do.

 

“I don’t know you though,” he pointed out, although it was quite hard to care at this point, “and for all I know you could be the merdor. The merdorer. The murderer.”

 

“I’m a suspect?” du Motier asked.

 

“Everyone staying here is,” Robert said, “I heard Simcoe telling that police captain. They didn’t even notice I was standing there.”

 

No one ever noticed him. Not even Abe, really. He stared morosely at his glass which was mysteriously empty again. du Motier’s was almost untouched.

 

“But have they narrowed it down to anyone?” du Motier asked.

 

Robert shrugged.

 

“Dunno,” he said, “I was trying to pay attention but I was so tired. And then Abe moved and it’s so stupid that he looks so good. How does he get his hair to do that-” he made a weird gesture, “floppy thing?”

 

“Abe?”

 

“My best friend. He’s a private detective, he’s why I’m here.”

 

Robert blinked. The room was starting to slowly spin, and a distant part of him was getting worried. He owned a bar for heaven’s sake, he shouldn’t be this drunk after a couple of glasses of whisky.

 

“Hey,” he said, “Did you put something in this? Because- it’s strong. I shoud-shud-shouldn’t be this drunk.”

 

“You must be simply tired _mon ami_ ,” du Motier said, voice low and cajoling, “But here. Tell me more about this Abe of yours. You have a _tendre_ for him, _non_? What’s he like?”

 

“I hate him and his stupid face,” Robert, listing slightly to the side, “It’s not fair that I’m attracted to such a moron.”

 

“But what is he like?” du Motier pressed, “Intuitive? Secretive at all? Has he been doing anything strange?”

 

“Abe’s always strange,” Robert slurred. The room was definitely spinning now. He felt sick. He tried to get up but fell off his bar stool with a THUNK.

 

“Urgh,” he groaned, but then the pain started. Starting in his stomach, it quickly intensified until everything was burning and he was burning and surely this wasn’t the alcohol doing this?

 

“…ber….mr…send…al…..help!....doctor…rong…911!...oison…”

 

There were blurred shapes over him, but Robert ignored them, clutching his abdomen. When the darkness overtook him he gladly sank into it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abe is having a considerably not good day

Abe’s day had started off not good and become progressively worse. He never thought he’d say this, but he really missed how he felt when he woke up hungover and thought that was going to be the worst part of his day. Since then he’d been dragged to a crime scene with his best friend and secret crush, seen a dead body and had his house broken into.

Once all this was over, he was going to be seriously mad at Anna. Until then he was just trying not to panic.

“It doesn’t look like anything’s been taken.” Ben was saying to Anna. “That’s why we figured Abe just left the door unlocked again. I’d say they were looking for something, but this house is always messy so there’s no way of saying whether that was what happened.”

“Yeah Woody, this is a dump, how’d you live like this?” Caleb grinned at Abe.

“Guys…” Abe was really, _really_ , not in the mood for this right now.

“It could be a threat.” Anna replied, ignoring the rest of them. It was a good job Anna was here, otherwise Abe was pretty certain he’d just start squabbling with Caleb again and nothing would get done. And things needed to get done because _someone had broken into his house_. “We’re looking into a murder that took place up at the hotel where Abigail works. It could be that whoever is responsible for that wants to scare us too stop us looking into it.”

“A murder!” Ben exclaims, sharing a look with Caleb. “Well, if that’s the case then we’ll help you investigate. It seems like you need more people on your side.”

“Well, that’s much appreciated. We’ve already got Abigail and Robert –” Abe’s phone rang, interrupting Anna. He silenced it without looking. Anna narrowed her eyes at him “– as well as the police captain who is be very, ah, accommodating. They’re all still up at the hotel looking into everything.”

Abe’s phone rang again. Abe silenced it again.

“Abe, you really should answer that,” Anna sighed. And Abe just. He didn’t want to deal with this right now

“I’m sorry, Anna, but it’s been a bit of an awful day and a man’s dead and my _home_ has been broken into and the _last_ thing I need to deal with is someone trying to sell me insurance! I can’t _do_ this right now. I’m tired and exhausted and I just want to –”

His phone rang again. Caleb snatched it out of his hand before he could do anything.

“Hello, Abraham Woodhull’s phone, Caleb Brewster speaking.” Abe scowled at him. He loved Caleb, he did, but he could be very irritating. Caleb frowned, then held out the phone towards Abe. “They say they’ll only talk to you.”

Abe took the phone, and held it to his ear. “Abraham Woodhull, speaking.”

“Mr Woodhull, this is Setauket General Hospital. You’re down as Robert Townsend’s emergency contact. He’s just been admitted with severe poisoning. You should get here right away.”

Abe… Abe could hear the words. But it was like from a distance. Like he was underwater. He couldn’t, he couldn’t…

“Abe?” Anna asked, her brow wrinkled in concern. “Abe are you alright? What’s happened?” Abe just stood there, his hand clutching the phone in a death grip.

Somehow, someone prised the phone out of his hand. He could hear whoever it was asking something. He kept staring at his hand, where his phone had been. The phone that had told him that Robert was… that Robert was...

Anna hung up the phone and turned to Ben and Caleb. “Robert’s been poisoned.”

Abe’s knees gave in. His three friends quickly knelt next to him.

“It’s alright, Abe, they caught it quickly. They’re already flushing his stomach to get rid of it. He should be fine.”

“What if, what if he… I never told him. I never _told_ him Anna what if he…” Abe pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to hold back the sobs that were racking his body.

“Hey. Come on. Let’s get to the hospital.” Ben said, rubbing Abe’s back. “I’ll go with you. Anna will go back to the hotel and try and find out who was responsible. Caleb can stay here and try and work out if anything was taken, or if it was just a threat.”

Abe didn’t hear Caleb complain, which was probably pretty telling of quite how dire the situation was at this point. He hated being left behind when everyone else was doing something.

To be fair, however, Abe didn’t hear much of anything. He was barely aware of what was happening until he was stood in front the window looking into Robert’s hospital room.

“There is no reason to suggest that he won’t make a full recovery.” The doctor was saying.

“Can I, Can I go in?” Abe’s voice was quiet, faltering.

“You can,” the doctor said, looking at him sympathetically, “though he might not wake for a while.”

“That’s fine, I just need…” He trailed off. The doctor nodded, and led him into the room. He reached out and took Robert’s wrist, feeling for his pulse. Warm. Beating. Alive. Abe clasped Robert’s hand, held it as he would have been able to do so many times before if he hadn’t been such a coward.

He collapsed forward, resting his head on the mattress beside Robert’s prone form. All he could do is wait.

 

(If he had looked outside at that moment. He would have notice Ben had been joined watching at the window by another man. A man who had been a guest at the hotel. A man Ben seemed to know.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you read this Nemainofthewater? There is NO REASON to suggest that he WON'T make a FULL RECOVERY.  
> If you kill my FAVOURITE CHARACTER I will be VERY UPSET and won't be responsible for the possible deaths of other characters which you may have explicitly asked me not to kill.  
> <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben meets someone new

 

“Mr Tallmadge,” a polite voice said, “If you wouldn’t mind?”

 

Ben didn’t look away from where he was staring at Robert’s prone form. From where he was staring into the hospital room (private, he still had some pull in this town) at Abe slowly falling apart at Robert’s side while Caleb rested a supportive hand on their friend’s neck and Anna stood uncharacteristically quietly in the corner.

 

God.

 

Ben had accepted the fact that he was probably going to die horribly in the course of his job: either that or resign quietly and without fanfare after a long and distinguished career. There was no real middle ground for people in his line of work. He had accepted that it was unlikely that he would ever have a real romantic relationship, with 2.5 kids and a white picket fence and a golden retriever.

 

He didn’t care. Because he had always been more than happy to give his life, physically or metaphorically, for his country. His friends’ lives? That was another story altogether.

 

“For the love of all that’s decent,” he said quietly, not wanting to draw attention away from Robert, “Can you just give us a minute?”

 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Agent,” the voice said, and Ben reluctantly tore his gaze away from his friends to look at the speaker. A young man. Not older than 25. Dressed in fine quality clothes, looking like any young professional apart from the garish purple and gold paisley tie and matching pocket square.  Ben frowned. He recognised him. Pierre-Etienne du Ponceau.

 

“What do you want?” he asked slowly, mentally combing the files that Nathan had sent with them on the hotel guests. du Ponceau’s file had been the thinnest, nothing more than an afterthought, mainly speculating on how a recently graduated linguistic student had managed to fall in with suspected con man and black-market trader Friedrich von Steuben. The files had written him off as harmless. Too harmless?

 

“A mutual friend wants to meet you,” du Ponceau said.

 

A mutual friend? It had to be von Steuben. But why would such a man want to talk to him? And more importantly, how did he know who Ben was? He had only just arrived in town. He shouldn’t have aroused any suspicion.  
  


“This really isn’t the time,” he said, “My friend has been poisoned.”

 

“And don’t you want to know who did it?”

 

Ben stilled.

 

“Are you saying that you know?” he asked casually, heart pounding in his chest. There was something going on. Something with more layers and subtext than he was prepared for. In his experience, good Samaritans never just came up and told him who the murderer was. Not like this.

 

du Ponceau gave an enigmatic smile.

 

“You’ll never know if you don’t follow me,” he said.

 

“Give me a moment to get my partner,” Ben said. du Ponceau placed a restraining arm on Ben’s shoulder.

 

“I’m afraid the offer’s only for you Agent Tallmadge,” he said, “And it’s a time-limited one. Now or never.”

 

Ben hesitated. Because Caleb was his partner. He would kill him for going off with an unknown person. But… he glanced back into the hospital room. He couldn’t leave his friends unprotected. Not when one of them had already been hurt. He swallowed the guilt and pain, pushing it down to deal with later.

 

“Of course,” he said blandly, taking his phone out of his pocket and swiftly typing a single word into it. He didn’t press send though. Not yet. Not unless things went wrong.

 

“Well Pierre,” he said icily, his own polite smile on his lips, “Lead on.”

 

#

 

It wasn’t von Steuben.

 

Instead, rising politely from his chair as Ben entered the small back room at the hotel, John André’s tired face greeted him.

 

André looked wrecked. Deep shadows under his eyes, and fine lines of tension creasing his forehead and around his eyes. Unsurprisingly for a hotel owner whose hotel had been transformed into a murder investigation. Nonetheless he was perfectly put together, even at this late hour, not a trace of stubble on his face nor any wrinkles marring his perfectly pressed slacks and crisp white shirt.

 

“Mr Tallmadge,” André said, “Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

 

du Ponceau left the room quietly, shutting the door behind him with a soft snick. Ben tried not to find that too foreboding.

 

“Mr André,” he replied, “Your…friend said that you had some information for me.”

 

André smiled grimly.

 

“Straight to business then.”

 

He crossed the room and withdrew a bottle of expensive scotch, pouring three generous glasses. Ben inwardly snorted: did André really think that he was foolish enough to accept anything from him? When at least two people had been poisoned in the past 48 hours?

 

André shrugged good naturedly at Ben’s refusal, instead handing the proffered glass to a woman standing in a shadowed corner of the room. Blonde hair twisted into a simple braid, she looked just as tired as André. She was dressed simply, but expensively: her finely cut jeans and loose, flowing blouse screamed ‘money’.

 

And there was something in the way she accepted the glass, in the lingering way that their hands touched, in the intense stare that lasted only seconds, but nonetheless managed to convey a wealth of reassurance, and love. Something that told Ben that these two were no mere acquaintances.

 

Wait a minute. Ben knew her. Or had at least seen pictures of her.

 

“Mrs Arnold?” he asked incredulously.

 

Peggy Arnold gave him a tight smile.

 

“Agent Tallmadge,” she said, “How nice to meet you, finally. Benedict has such good things to say about you.”

 

Benedict Arnold, one his co-workers. A decorated hero, reassigned to desk duty after the Saratoga incident. Ben had never held that against him, had fought with Washington to get the man the recognition he deserved after his long years of loyal service. He had married Peggy Shippen not two months ago. They were meant to be on their honeymoon in Thailand. What she was doing here, in Setauket of all places… Ben had no idea.

 

And if she was having an extra-marital affair with André, where was her husband?

 

Damn it. He wished that Nathan were here. Or Hamilton. Or even Laurens.

 

(He wanted Caleb to stay exactly where he was though. Because he couldn’t let anything more happen to his friends. He just couldn’t.)

 

“Straight to business,” he agreed, settling himself on one of the chairs. “Now. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the 23rd in your timezone ThebanSacredBand, and that's good enough for me! I hope that you note that I haven't done anything (else) to Robert :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John André has something of a plan

It was approaching nightfall, there had been one murder and another poisoning, and the hotel was crawling with police and detectives from just about everywhere. John André just wanted all of this to be over with as soon as possible.

It was hard enough to run a crime ring from a hotel on Long Island, of all places. It required a lot of organisation to get things to go the way he wanted them to. But it was working, and he was becoming more and more influential. He could count many among his loyal clients, from Mafiosi to insurance fraudsters. He was currently housing a disgraced former CIA head, who had now gone private, for the right price, as well as one of the most successful fraudsters in the world.

(He had Pierre, a second cousin on his mother’s side, to thank for that. What were the chances that he would find a sugar daddy – sorry, an _employer_ – who would just so happen to be none other than the Baron von Steuben? And the boy was such a gold digger that he was more than happy to accept André’s money to persuade his, ah, _boss_ , to pay André a visit.)

Unfortunately, in addition to the clients he _wanted_ to have in his hotel, André was also currently housing a murder investigation and an Interpol agent. And then, when he had found out two current CIA agents had turned up in town, he was ready to burst.

This was all Rogers’ fault.

Wasn’t it always?

It was Rogers’ fault that André had left the SAS. Not officially. Not even obviously. But it was his fault all the same. André had always been drawn to the other man. They had been close. Very close. And then Rogers had…

No. André didn’t want to think about that. Not ever, but especially not now.

He had thought Rogers was out of his life forever. He had hoped. But then Benedict Arnold, one of his newest associates, had suggested hiring Rogers for a hit that he wanted to take place. And André could hardly say no. Not when Peggy had already sacrificed so much to bring him into the fold.

They had set a meeting in DC. That was fine, André had thought. There was no reason for him to see Rogers at all.

And then Rogers had arrived at the hotel a few days before the proposed meet up.

And now Rogers was dead.

André had wanted him dead, for sure. Had wanted him dead so many times in the past 5 years, since his discharge from the SAS. But he would have preferred if he hadn’t died in his hotel and brought a plague of investigators down upon him.

More than anything else, he wanted to find out who had done this himself. He wasn’t sure whether he would thank them or kill them quite yet, but he wanted to find out _himself_ , without the presence of any form of law enforcement.

He didn’t want to see Cicero get into trouble, of course not, the boy was hard working and bright, and was so obviously not the culprit to anyone who knew anything about him, including the other guests, if André hadn’t misheard their various statements. But maybe it would be easiest for them all if the police arrested him and all cleared out for a while.

Then, all André would have to do would be to get rid of the various government agents.

Fortunately, things had worked out very much in his favour.

Arnold had told Peggy, who of course had told André, all about the annoying little CIA agents under Washington’s direct command. Especially the two who grew up right under the nose of where André’s hotel now stands. And he had been able to observe them himself, the few times he had seen them in the town when he had been down there. They had caught his eye even before he had known their profession, hanging around the bar loudly, with a tight group of friends, always making a lot of noise.

And then the other three had shown up that morning as ‘private investigators’, and André had had a terrible feeling that the CIA pair wouldn’t be far behind. He was right.

But he had an advantage. He knew them. They did not know him. And if he played this right…

 

“Straight to business. Now. What was it you wanted to tell me?

Benjamin Tallmadge was now sat in front of André’s desk, an edge to his voice. André could almost see his mind whirring. How did André know he was an agent? How did André know Pierre? Was one of his close friends about to die in a hospital? (Probably not, from the email from Pierre that appeared on his phone moments after his cousin had left the room).

This was where André liked to be. He held all the cards.

“The man who poisoned your friend was the Frenchman Joseph du Motier. And I have reason to suspect he is not the man he says he is.”

Tallmadge leaned forwards, his forehead creasing and his eyes narrowing. André schooled his expression, making sure his smile was only inward. This was going to be easier than he thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! Sorry its a bit late, but its done now!  
> I've successfully advanced the plot by 0.01%, but there's maybe a bit more backstory now?  
> Anyway, hope you enjoy :)  
> Looking forward to the next chapter Nemainofthewater :D


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert has a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made it just in time! I didn't think I was going to, but I made it!

To say that Gilbert was having a bad couple of days would be an understatement. It was bad enough to have literally slept through a murder that must have taken place no more than a floor away from him was bad enough, but when he had had attempted to find out what exactly the police (or that strange private investigator, it was unclear who was doing the most investigating) had discovered so far about it by plying the pretty, stressed one with drinks… Well. That had turned out even worse.

 

He had been intrigued by Robert as soon as he saw him, trailing along after his friends. It was evident that the woman, Anna, had been the driving force of the investigation, eager as she had been to flirt with the head officer on the case. Abraham, the dopey one, was ostensibly a private investigator (although how that worked when the mad was poster boy for ‘slightly dopey’ Gilbert had no idea). Robert though…Robert had had no clear role, apart from perhaps moral support. But as Gilbert watched Robert watch the crime scene, he realised that the other man had a power of his own.

 

He was forgettable. He could fade into the background of wherever he chose, until he was little more than scenery, not any more noticeable than a table or a potted plant. Gilbert had no idea how the American government hadn’t yet recruited a man so naturally predisposed toward the business of espionage. Although he wasn’t complaining: it was to his advantage after all.  

 

The plan had seemed foolproof at the time: bat his eyelashes, ask a few empathetic questions, and Robert would succumb to his not inconsiderable charms. It would save him the time, effort, and suspicion of scoping out the investigation himself if he could casually draw out the man’s observations.

 

Robert was a cautious man, but the alcohol and the lure of being able to open up about his crush on Woodhull should have been enough for him to lower his inhibitions and spill the details of the case. And if that meant he had to suffer through lovesick idiocy for a few hours? So be it. Although he would never admit it, Gilbert was incredibly fond of terrible telenovelas, and Robert and Abraham were two characters lifted straight out of the cheesiest of soaps. The two of the were not subtle. At all. The pining was so blatant that it could be seen by complete strangers, people who knew them, and probably alien life if it ever deigned to visit Earth. Gilbert was fairly certain that even Cicero had been able to pick up on it, and he was a teenage boy.

 

That had been the plan.

 

Needless to say, it had all gone wrong, ending with Robert in the hospital with severe poisoning, and the not inconsiderable possibility that the police were going to take a long, hard look at his identity. Joseph du Motier, while well-constructed, was not meant for long-term use. Interpol hadn’t thought he needed to be as Gilbert hadn’t been meant to actually interact with André at all, merely interview his associates and keep a close eye on the man. With his luck, he would be discovered, potentially causing an international incident, and putting André on his guard. Even more on his guard.

 

Sighing, Gilbert looked down at his phone. The one bright spot so far was that in the confusion that had descended upon the hotel once he had called an ambulance, he had at least been able to snap a few pictures of Robert’s research. Which included the name of the poison used on Rogers.

 

Ricin. Why ricin of all things? Found naturally in castor beans, it was easy enough to extract, and it was incredibly potent. It was also easily identifiable, however. Not something that you would want to use to simulate a accident, not in these modern times. Gilbert was reminded of the case of Georgi Markov back in ’87, who had been poisoned by an individual wielding a ricin-pellet-injecting-umbrella. It was before his time, but it had stuck in his head if only because it was absolutely ridiculous, something that should really only be found in the pages of a James Bond novel. There was the same feeling to this murder: that it belonged more in the pages of a trashy spy thriller novel, or a cheap murder mystery than in real life.

 

He groaned, massaging his forehead gently. This whole mission was meant to be simple: how then had there already been a murder and an attempted murder? He was going to kill his boss. That or force him to send him on an all expenses paid ‘mission’ to the Swiss Alps.

 

It would make sense if Robert had been poisoned using the same agent as Rogers, it would make a lot of sense. But it was worrying, because both men had been drinking the same thing, leading him to question who had been the intended victim. Did they, whoever ‘they’ were, already know who he was? Had he inadvertently stumbled into their plans? Or were they really trying to get rid of Robert, as unlike at that scenario seemed?

 

And who could the murderer be? It had to be someone in the hotel: the building was still on lockdown which meant that none of the guests or staff had been able to leave. Was it André? Gilbert didn’t think so. He couldn’t be sure, but if the man wanted to murder someone, something as flashy and easily identifiable as poison didn’t seem to be his style. He seemed more the type of man to make his enemies ‘disappear’ somewhere far away and not linked to himself. Poisoning at his own base of operations? Only an idiot would do that.

 

Gilbert sighed, looking out of his window. It was dark. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was 3am: it was time for him to go to sleep after one of the longest days in his life. He could come back to his research at a less ungodly hour, with fresh eyes. In fact, maybe he could even contact head office, and ask them to get him the hell off this case. Yes, that was what he would do so in the morning…

 

He didn’t even bother to get undressed, just removed his shoes and blazer and slumped into bed, visions of leaving this ridiculous country far, far behind dancing through his head.

 

 _Merde_ , he thought to himself the next morning, staring into the beautiful, clear, and oh so very dead eyes of mademoiselle Philomena Cheer, he should have asked for that transfer earlier. He was in trouble now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I managed to advance the plot slightly further? We are at least at the next day, although there was also a lot of introspection going on in this chapter...


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new day dawns. Edmund has planned out what he wants to do. Of course, that is certainly not what happens.

How hard could it be, thought Edmund, to solve a murder when the only possible perpetrators were all staying in the same hotel? Apparently, ridiculously difficult.

All of the suspects seemed somewhat shady, some of the officers working the case weren’t exactly the ones he would have chosen, and there were civilians underfoot every way he looked. Not that he would complain about Ms Strong, of course, she was quite lovely and seemed more competent than Lieutenant Simcoe and Officer Baker combined. But her friends, well, for a Private Investigator and his assistant they didn’t seem to be doing much by the way of investigating.

Well, one of them had managed to locate at least part of the murder weapon. Unfortunately for him.

Everything was just generally a lot more stressful than Edmund had thought it would be when he had agreed to take on the case.

But he’d slept on it now, and he had some theories. He wanted to talk to Miss Cheer, who seemed to be very interested in all the gossip about the people in the hotel. Hopefully she’d reveal more after the (probably) accidental poisoning the previous afternoon. He especially wanted to know more about André’s past, given that he had known Rogers from his past in the SAS. And given how much Miss Cheer apparently fawned over André in her interview – well, he had high hopes that if anyone would give up any information, she would.

 

Of course, all of his plans were scuppered the moment he entered the hotel to find out that Monsieur du Motier had awoken to find Miss Cheer a corpse beside him.

Well, that was the story he told. And Edmund didn’t have enough evidence to take him into custody. But that was two murders – well, one attempted murder – associated with the man. Either he was a very unlucky man, or a very hapless killer.

In any case, Monsieur du Motier was sitting down the corridor being questioned by Simcoe, and Edmund was pacing the foyer trying to work out what the link could be between the victims of the two deaths and further poisonings. After all, Rogers was a shady character if Edmund did say so himself, but Miss Cheer had appeared to be nothing more than an idle gossip. And Townsend? Well, Edmund couldn’t imagine that Ms Strong would possible count among her closest friends a man anything less than morally perfect. She was far too good for such a thing.

Ah Ms Strong- But no! This was a murder enquiry. Edmund would have time to think more about her (and enquire whether she maybe, possibly, might be a little interested in meeting him for a cup of tea – or coffee, if that was more her thing – at some point, if she had the time of course) _after_ this mystery had been solved.

And currently, anyone associated with the hotel and the investigation seemed to be at risk. Which meant – oh goodness – Ms Strong! Edmund would have to warn her to stay away.

Just as he was thinking this, the front door of the hotel opened, and think of an angel and she shall appear, for there stood Ms Anna Strong herself. She was again flanked by two men, both different to those he had met the day before. None of the three of them appeared to have slept very much at all the previous night.

“Ms Strong, I really must protest you being here! It’s really not safe! There was another death last night, and I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel if you got hurt.” Edmund froze. He could feel his face turning red. “A- As the police captain, of course. I’d feel terrible if you got hurt because you’re a civilian. Not. Not for any other reason. Obviously.”

The broader of the two men with Ms Strong, who had a thick beard, let out a loud laugh. “Don’t you worry yourself Eddie. Benny-boy here and me’ll look after our Annie.”

“Honestly Caleb.” Ms Strong said, rolling her eyes. Then she turned to face Edmund with a nice smile that made him almost completely forget the ignominy of being addressed as ‘Eddie’ by a man he didn’t know. “Thank you so much for your concern, Captain Hewlett, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. I need to keep looking into this, for Abigail and Abe’s sakes. Now, please, what happened last night?”

And Edmund, well, he really shouldn’t be divulging details of the crime to a member of the public. But when Ms Strong looked at him like that… well. What could he do but tell her everything he knew?

Upon spilling all the details, he finally looked away from Anna’s deep brown eyes and to her companions – to her companion. For while the bearded one – Caleb, if he remembered correctly – was still there, the skinnier, blond man (Edmund guessed that Bennie-boy wasn’t his given name) had disappeared while he was talking. This was _certainly_ not good. A private citizen, wandering around an active crime scene unaccompanied?

Ms Strong glanced behind her, to see what he was frowning at. When she too noticed her friend was gone, she let out a noise of frustration that Edmund could not believe came from the mouth of such a beautiful woman. Beside her Caleb started chuntering to himself.

“I told him I’d kill him if he disappeared again and what does he do? He disappears again. Honestly I don’t know why people think I’m the crazy reckless one out of the pair of us…”

While the pair of them were griping about their friend’s sudden disappearance, Edmund was silently stressing. If Lieutenant Simcoe found out about this, he’d never let Edmund live it down. He didn’t need that slimy weasel getting even more involved in his business than he already was.

Suddenly, shouting came from down the corridor. Simcoe marched towards him, red-faced. Exactly what Edmund hadn’t needed.

“I can’t believe you’re letting civilians wander into murder suspect interrogations, Hewlett.” He spat Edmund’s surname like a curse. “Believe me, I will be reporting back to head office about this!”

Before Edmund could say anything, Caleb and Ms Strong were running towards the room where Monsieur du Motier was being held, where their other friend had gone to. Edmund ran after them, deciding that he could deal with responding to Simcoe at a later point.

The three of them pushed open the door to see Anna’s friend pinning Monsieur du Motier to the wall by his neck, a look of utter fury on his face.

“I’ve done some research into you _du Motier_. Your name doesn’t date back more than 6 months. Now tell me who you are, and why you tried to kill one of my best friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: is Ben blond? this is totally not an excuse to stare at pictures of him I swear


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caleb is tired of being the responsible one

Red15

 

”Ben!”

 

Caleb’s voice rang out across the small room, uncharacteristically hard. He didn’t like to use this part of himself, the part that was hard and tempered from the trauma that he had experienced and still faced on a regular basis. He especially didn’t want to use it in front of Anna, sweet, strong Anna who might suspect what he did for a living but didn’t truly know. Couldn’t conceive the horrors that he had faced.

 

But he had to. Because at the sound of his voice, Ben spun around, incidentally dragging du Motier with him, as his hands were still entangled in the other man’s collar. du Motier didn’t look good, pale and sickly with dark circles under his eyes, although Caleb supposed that waking up next to a corpse could do that to you. It probably didn’t help that Ben was cutting off most of his oxygen supply.

 

“Let him go,” Caleb said.

 

“You don’t understand! He…this man is the reason that Robert was poisoned. Even if he didn’t manage to kill him. I didn’t believe André at first: I didn’t want to believe him, but when I heard about Miss Cheer…” he broke off, and his hands twisted convulsively, causing du Motier to make a small, choked, sound.

 

“Benny,” Caleb said, “He can’t answer any questions like that. Not when you’re fair strangling him. _Ben_ ,” he repeated because there was a look in his eyes that Caleb knew too well, and it wouldn’t end well. Not with Anna and her police officer in the room.

 

“Ben,” Anna said softly, and that was what finally got to him. Ben dropped du Motier, leaving the man red-faced and coughing on the floor. Caleb ignored him: he had more important things to take care of. Namely his friends. He stepped up to Ben and hugged him tightly, only pausing to open his arms to Anna so that she could join them.

 

“I’m sorry,” said a voice behind them, “But I’m afraid that your friend is going to have to leave.”

 

Caleb drew back to look at the police officer, Hewlett, the one who had such a large crush on Anna that even Abe had noticed it. He was certain that the man must be competent enough, he would have had to be to be promoted to Captain, but the way he turned into a stumbling fool around Anna  certainly wasn’t helping his credibility.

 

“I realise this looks bad,” he started, reaching into his pocket to pull out his credentials. Washington wouldn’t be pleased, but he would just have to deal with it. He had to have known what he was getting into by sending their team in particular, and it wasn’t like Nate hadn’t managed to cover up worse things.

 

Then…

 

“I see that we’re engaging in police brutality now,” a voice drawled from behind Hewlett, causing the mind to jump out of the way, “How…wonderful. I’m going to have to bring this up to the Commissioner you realise, Captain. Although,” he smirked at Anna and Caleb felt his fist clench, “I could be persuaded otherwise.”

 

Caleb let go of his badge. He might have shown Hewlett, there was no way he was going to blow his cover in front of Simcoe.

 

“Simcoe,” Hewlett said tightly, “How good of you to return. Considering that you left a suspect alone with a civilian.”

 

Simcoe raised an eyebrow: “You’re blaming this on me?” he said, “The fact that you’ve broken dozens of protocols to let your little crush,” Hewlett flushed but, Caleb noted, did not refute the accusation, “Into a crime scene? And then had the audacity to be surprised when one of her friends got hurt and another. Well. Appears to be doing the hurting.”

 

Anna started forward, but Caleb placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. There was no point in getting in the middle of the two men, it would be worse than pointless. He didn’t need to get entangled in pointless jurisdiction disputes. In any case, there was something…off about Simcoe. He couldn’t quite place it, but the man gave him a bad feeling. And just because he was one of the last people to see Rogers alive. Investigative duties or not, there was a large part of Caleb that was screaming at him to stay away from the man.

 

And when had he become the sensible one in the group? Probably around the time that Robert had landed in the hospital and taken the group’s collective self-restraint with him.

 

“That’s enough,” Hewlett snapped, “I am your superior officer, and I am ordering you to do your damn job.”

 

“Of course, sir,” Simcoe drawled, “And what job is that?”

 

“Escort Mr du Motier to the station,” Hewlett said, “We have a few questions for you, sir,” he added to the man himself, who had managed to stagger upright and was leaning against the bed.

 

“Of course,” du Motier said, and Caleb winced at the harsh, raspy quality of his voice and at the redness of his neck, “As I said earlier, anything to clear up this misunderstanding. However, I must ask: is this an official investigation? If so, I fear that I must demand that my lawyer be present. As is my right.”

 

The line of Hewlett’s mouth thinned: Simcoe on the other hand just looked amused.

 

“A lawyer Mr du Motier?” Simcoe asked, “Are you sure you’re innocent?”

 

“Simcoe,” Hewlett snapped, and suddenly Caleb could see how this, frankly unimpressive, man had managed to get to the rank of police Captain. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes, and Caleb added his name to the mental list of people he was going to ask Nate to look into.

 

“Wait,” Ben said, quiet and seemingly back in control, although Caleb could tell from a look that he was about to do something incredibly stupid. Again. “I need to talk to that man.”

 

“I’m afraid, Mr-”

 

“Tallmadge.”

 

“-Tallmadge that that won’t be possible. Unless Mr du Motier decides to press assault charges-”

 

Looking tired, the man in question shook his head.

 

“-then I don’t want to see you for the rest of this investigation. If you and you friends-” and he shot an apologetic look at Anna, but continued nonetheless, “Don’t stay away from the investigation, then I’ll have choice but to arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

 

Ben tensed.

 

“Don’t do it,” Caleb muttered, but he knew it was useless. Fine. Time to save the idiot from himself. Once he calmed down, probably with ‘help’ from Anna, then he would be able to liaise with Washington and get more information about what the hell was going on. In the meantime, Caleb had to stop him from getting himself arrested.

 

“I’d say I was sorry,” Caleb said, lowly to Ben, “But honestly? I have nothing to apologise for. You owe me big time for this, Benny boy. Anyway, all this being responsible is giving me hives. Time for you to step up.”

 

And drawing back, he surged forward and punched Simcoe straight in the jaw.

 

There were potentially better, less obvious ways of doing this. But on the other hand, he got to punch Simcoe.

 

(He hadn’t forgotten the way the man had leered at Anna)

 

Yes, he thought as the man began bellowing in pain, before snapping a set of handcuffs around his wrists, at least this way he had more of a chance to interrogate du Motier. He was fairly confident he could escape police custody piss drunk, with his eyes closed, and with nobody any the wiser.

 

As he was shoved out of the building and into a waiting police cruiser, he smiled to himself. At last. They were going to get some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks have gone by so quickly?? Well, I hope you enjoy a rare continuation of plot advancement ThebanSacredBand! Also poor Caleb, the mortifying ordeal of Being Known as the sensible one.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick snapshot of how things are going back at the CIA

Click. Click. Click.

Trawling through social media sites looking at photos people had taken of DC to see if they had caught a secret meeting in the background by accident was not Alexander Hamilton’s idea of a good time. Especially as he had been doing it for a whole day already and had discovered precisely nothing. He much preferred being out and _doing_ things, or even just writing (although he is _not_ a glorified secretary, whatever Arnold says), because at least then he’s using he his brain and some of his energy.

Alex had never done well being stuck behind a desk. Washington _knew_ this. This was probably some kind of veiled punishment for his last mission, which was totally unfair. It’s not like it was _his_ fault he’d told a certain member of congress exactly where he should shove his opinions on immigration.

Click. Click. Click.

It didn’t help that the face-recognition software they had had decided to play up this past week. This job would have been over in less than an hour otherwise.

“Joooohn this is _point_ less, I still haven’t _found_ anything.” At least John was here for Alex to whine at. Two pairs of eyes worked faster than one. And he liked spending time with John. “My brain wants to melt.”

Alex scooted his wheeled chair over to wear John was sitting, resting his chin on his best friend’s shoulder. He watched John’s screen as he went over pictures that looked almost identical to the ones Alex had been going through. They could have been the exact same pictures, for all Alex was able to tell.

Click. Click. Click.

No-one in any of the pictures was Rogers, or Simcoe.

A message _pinged_ in the bottom of the screen, from Washington.

“Can one of you get to my office now, please. Brewster’s just been arrested.”

Alex snorted. “Nate owes me 20 dollars. He thought it would take at least three days.” John laughed. He had a nice laugh. Alex shook his head. Not a time to be thinking that. He clearly hadn’t got enough sleep last night.

“Right, so. Rock-paper-scissors for who gets to abandon the worst game of Where’s Waldo?” Alex asked. John grinned at him.

“Oh, you are _on_.”

Two rounds and only mild complaining from Alex later and John walked out of the office to find Washington, turning around to stick his tongue out at Alex as he left. Alex stuck up his middle finger, watching as John shut the door behind him, before sighing and turning back to his computer. There was no John to distract him now.

Click. Click. Click.

There had to be _something_ here.

Some time later (too long later) and there was still nothing, and Alex’s motivation was starting to dwindle again. He wished he had won the rock-paper-scissors, if only because one more second staring at these computers and he was going to start screaming.

Click. Click. Cli-wait.

He went back two pictures. There was something that wasn’t right. It wasn’t Rogers or Simcoe, to be sure. But… Alex scanned the photo. The foreground was a nice family selfie. And there, in the background… He enhanced the image.

Wasn’t Benedict Arnold supposed to be on his honeymoon in Thailand?

Alex flagged the picture, then started going through the rest more frantically than before. He could go back through them more carefully to find Rogers and Simcoe. He just wanted to know what _Arnold_ was doing.

Click. Click. Click. Click.Click.ClickClickClick.

Bingo.

There, in the back of a photo of a girl posing with a book, stood Arnold. And Rogers. And Simcoe.

Arnold was the mysterious third man. Arnold was a double agent working against the CIA?

Alex quickly sent the photo to Washington, then ran to find the man himself. But no sooner had he flung the door open than he was shoved back inside.

“Going somewhere, Hamilton?” said Benedict Arnold, a sneer on his face, as a cloth was pressed over Hamilton’s mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sheer amount of pain writing "Where's Waldo" gave me as a Brit.... ugh  
> Hope you all enjoy, good luck working out what happens next Nemainofthewater ;D


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of plot advancements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defence, it's still on time in my time zone!

Arnold finally felt Hamilton go limp in his hold. He waited a few more minutes just to be sure, before withdrawing the chloroform-soaked cloth from the other man’s mouth though. Better to be safe than sorry. It was probably the quietest he had ever seen him.

 

Stepping past him, Arnold sat in Hamilton’s desk chair and leisurely started to click through his messages. Stopping at the message that had been sent to Washington, he swore. His cover had been thoroughly blown. Because of an idiot of a tourist. And Alexander Hamilton, that arrogant pain in the ass. If the idiot boy slept once in a while, then he would have had more time. He had gone to great time and expense to make sure that the facial recognition software was compromised as soon as he had realised that Rogers had been killed. All for nothing.

 

Well. Hopefully there was something that could be salvaged from this mess.

 

Quickly and efficiently, as befitting one of the best agents that the CIA had the fortune to employ, he identified several key files, removing a hard drive from his pocket and copying them to it. There were safeguards against this, of course. And no doubt there was an alarm of some sort ringing out. But there was nothing that they could do. It wouldn’t take him long to finish. In any case, he was working using Hamilton’s station, and the man had been known to try and copy confidential files to his own personal computer so that he could continue working from home whenever Washington finally got tired of his racoon eyes and kicked him out of the office.

 

Finally, it was finished. Before logging off, he took care to erase the security footage from the monitors that was the only thing that betrayed his presence in the CIA building. He was meant to be on his honeymoon after all: while the agents were searching for him in Thailand he could take the opportunity to disappear. There was only one thing left to do.

 

“Apologies Hamilton,” he said, kneeling down beside him and removing a clear syringe, “It’s nothing personal.”

 

Then he carefully injected the clear liquid into his arm and left.

 

#

 

Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

 

“Your lawyer has arrived,” he said, “Although I was unaware that you had requested one.”

 

Brewster shrugged. He looked damnably comfortable sitting in the interrogation room, despite the handcuffs that Simcoe had insisted on placing him in, claiming that he was dangerous. Well. Considering that Brewster’s punch had broken his nose, perhaps he had a point, however loath Edmund was to admit it.

 

“It’s news to me as well,” he said placidly, “But my boss probably sent someone over to get me out. I’m very important, you know.”

 

“Of course you are, Mr Brewster,” Edmund muttered, “I’m sure that you’re extremely valued in your job as-” he squinted at the file that he had pulled up, “-a park ranger at the National Mall and memorial Parks. Tell me, what’s that like?”

 

“I do hope that you’re not attempting to ask my client any questions without the presence of his counsel,” said a voice from the door.

 

“Aaron Burr, sir!” Brewster cried out, and Edmund felt a pang of fellow feeling despite himself at the thoroughly irritated look that crossed the newcomers face before it returned to smooth neutrality.

 

“Mr Brewster,” he replied, giving a polite incline of his head, “Captain Hewlett,” he continued, giving Edmund’s hand a firm shake.

 

“Mr Burr, I presume,” Edmund said drily.

 

“What gave it away?” Burr replied, completely deadpan.

 

“Aaron Burr, sir-”

 

“-please stop calling me that,” Burr said, but without much hope.

 

“-is one of the best,” Brewster said, “Always ready to lend a hand.”

 

“Out of the goodness of your heart?” Edmund asked.

 

“Of course,” Burr replied, “That and a rather large sum of money from the federal government. Now, enough me. Shall we begin?”

 

#

 

“Damn it,” Anna said, staring at Robert, finally asleep in his bed. He was pale-incredibly pale. She carefully placed the Styrofoam cup of coffee that she had brought on his side table, next to two or three get-well-soon cards and a sad bowl of grapes.

 

The nurses had said that he could leave the hospital the next day: he really was out of danger, they were just keeping him for observation just in case.

 

In the bed, Robert stirred groggily.

 

“…’na?” he asked.

 

“Yes,” she said, “I’m here.”

 

“y’okay?” he asked, slurring his words slightly from what must have been an incredible amount of drugs in his system, “y’look sad.”

 

“I’m fine,” Anna said firmly, leaning down and gripping his hand tightly, “I’m not the one who was poisoned.”

 

“S’not your fault,” he said, “It’s not…”

 

He trailed off and Anna watched fondly and sadly as he fell back to sleep, his body clearly exhausted from the last few days.

 

“It is,” she said to him, “It’s my fault that you’re all messed up in this. I just. I just wanted to help Abigail. And now everything is going wrong. You’re in hospital, and Ben attacked someone, and Caleb is in jail. Who knows what’s going on with Abe?”

 

There wasn’t any response. Not that she had expected one.

 

“Just get better,” she said quietly, “I need you to get better.”

 

#

 

After what seemed like an eternity it was the next day. The second since the murder of Robert Rogers. Life went on. People woke up. Hoped that today was the day that the mystery would be solved. That there would be some answers to the endless questions and tangles and mysteries that were plaguing the town.

 

It was a futile wish.

 

All Abigail could think, looking at the pale and lifeless form of her employer hanging from the rafters of his bedroom, was _not again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have now got ALL the plot ThebanSacredBand!! Good luck on the next chapter :) :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abe has a bad feeling about this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early update from me because I'm away for the next few weeks.

“I rule Mr André’s death a tragic suicide.”

“If it was a suicide, where’s whatever he was stood on to tie himself to the rafter?”

Sackett fixed Abe with a glower. The confidence which Abe had mustered to point out his (completely correct) observation died in an instant. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I’m, ah, I’m Abraham Woodhull, I’m a PI.”

“And, Mr Woodhull, I am the pathologist, and I have enough experience of this type of thing to know the difference between a suicide and a murder designed to look like a suicide.” Abe cowered a little. He had thought that finally helping, finally doing _something_ would make him feel less awful. But apparently he wasn’t even good enough at his actual job to help out.

He couldn’t do anything right. He couldn’t catch Robert Rogers’ murderer. He couldn’t prevent another murder from taking place. He couldn’t stop Robert from being…

“He’s not wrong.” Abe jumped a mile as Captain Hewlett’s voice burst him out of his reverie.

“I’m well aware I’m not wrong.” Sackett’s voice was a sneer.

“No, I meant that Mr Woodhull isn’t wrong. There’s nothing he could have stood on to tie himself to that rafter, it’s too far away from his desk. If he had stood on something and kicked it away, it would still be lying on the floor. Therefore, either he killed himself and someone came and moved a chair to make it look like a murder, or it _was_ a murder.”

Sackett started swearing, muttering about how there was no point being here is _amateurs_ were allowed to come in and do his job. He grabbed his bag, storing out of the room.

Abe stared after him. This was… He was right? And the _pathologist_ was wrong? There was definitely something wrong with this police force. Were they trying to hide something?

He jumped again when Hewlett laid a hand on his shoulder. “That was a good observation, Woodhull. I’ll send Baker up to see if any fingerprints were left on the rope, or on anything the perpetrator might have used to climb up on.” Hewlett paused, staring at him. His brow wrinkled in confusion, or concern, or something of the sort. “Are you quite alright, Abraham?”

Abe let out a shuddering breath. “I. I don’t know?”

Hewlett gave him a sad smile. “Of course. Your friend has been poisoned, it’s quite reasonable that you-”

“It’s not about Robert. I mean, it is about Robert, of course it’s about Robert, but it’s not _just_ about Robert. I mean…” He shook his head. He wasn’t making any sense. He needed to say something about his suspicions.

“I’m not the best PI. I’m passable, and the best in Setauket, but that’s not really saying anything. Me pointing out that it’s obviously a murder, and the pathologist denying it? That’s got to mean something. And Simcoe. There’s something suspicious about him, and it’s not just the way he leers at Anna. It’s like he’s trying his best to _not_ help. Like, getting in the way of investigations, re-doing interviews to waste time, something like that. It’s just. Something’s wrong.”

Hewlett raised his eyebrows, and it suddenly occurred to Abe that maybe the captain of the police force was probably _not_ the correct person to insinuate that said police force was corrupt to. Oh God. If he knew about this… And now he knew that _Abe_ knew about this… This was not good. This was _really_ not good.

Abe was going to be the next person to die in this hotel full of murder and no-one was going to _know_ that the police were corrupt and he’ll never be able to tell Robert how he _feels_ and-

“You’re right.”

Abe blinked. And then blinked again. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re right. There’s definitely something strange about Simcoe, and Sackett hasn’t been so unobservant in the past when I’ve worked with him. He’s a brilliant pathologist, normally. There’s something else going on.” His eyes filled with a level of earnest-ness that almost hurt Abe to look at. “Thank you for trusting me with your thoughts, Abraham.”

“It’s…” Abe trailed off. He didn’t know quite what to say to that. He could hardly admit to the man that just a few moments ago he had been terrified that the captain was going to reveal himself as just as corrupt.

Fortunately, Hewlett seemed to take his none-answer as a symptom of his previous imbalance.

“Now, we obviously can’t talk to anyone else in the force about this. We don’t know how deep the corruption goes. I think we should do our own investigation, make our own team. Ms Strong, of course. She is far too upstanding a person to be swayed by money or blackmail in the face of the truth. As for who else…”

“I would trust Ben and Caleb with my life,” said Abe, finally finding his voice, “I don’t always know exactly what they’re up to, but they wouldn’t be paid off. They’re the best of us. And. And Robert too.” His voice cracked a little on Robert’s name. Hewlett didn’t comment.

“Right. We should meet up, the group of us. Somewhere Simcoe won’t find us. Well, not your friend Brewster, unless his lawyer has got him released already. But the rest of us. We need to get everyone we trust, and discuss everything we know. Because is people keep hiding things, we’re always going to be three steps behind the murderer. And I don’t know about you, but I want to catch them. Before anyone else gets hurt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Nemainofthewater I didn't mention how much I appreciate the fact that Robert is recovering but I really do so here is Edmund being a good boy and not dying and also my promise that I won't be the one to kill him <3
> 
> Also sorry Sackett's an asshole someone had to be


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert wants to get back on the good drugs now, please

Robert Townsend was released from hospital two days after he landed himself in there because he was stupid enough to get himself poisoned, honestly Robert, what sort of private investigator are you.

 

It’s probably the drugs that haven’t quite left his system, or the relief that he’s finally been let out of the sterile hospital room and the mounting bills that he can visualise in his mind’s eyes (because he’s pretty sure that his insurance isn’t going to cover poison of all things), or the fact that Abe and Anna came to escort him from the hospital. There might have been a bit of gazing adoringly into Abe’s eyes, but nothing that couldn’t be blamed on the aforementioned drugs. Well, Anna might have spotted it, but she had just rolled her eyes at them and pointedly not mentioned it.

 

 Hanging between the two of them and stumbling up the stairs to his apartment (and whose idea was it to live somewhere with so many stairs) he felt pretty content. Which was kind of funny when you thought about it.

 

Abe grinned at him when they finally made it to his front door, and he definitely didn’t melt a little inside and hate himself for it, and then Anna was opening it and he was hit by a wave of sound as Caleb and Ben yelled: “Surprise!” like demented idiots and pounced on him.

 

“Watch out!” Anna said, “You don’t want to put him back into hospital. We’ve only just got him back,” but she was laughing and didn’t move to stop Caleb from gently ruffling his hair or from engulfing him in a bear hug, before moving him, bodily, to the couch.

 

“Caleb insisted on making you a welcome home banner,” Ben said, mouth twitching upward at the side.

 

“You were the one that added all the glitter!” Caleb retorts, and Robert’s eyes were drawn inexorably up to the other side of his living room where a banner absolutely covered in red, white, and blue glitter was hanging. WELCOME HOME ROBERT it read, only they’d evidentially run out of space halfway through his name was written in ridiculously small, and curving, letters. Despite himself, he laughed.

 

“I’m never going to get that glitter out of the carpet,” he said.

 

“We baked you a cake as well,” Abe said, bouncing slightly on his feet, and Robert shot an alarmed glance toward Anna. He loved all of them, most of the time, but none of them had any baking ability at all. In fact, none of them should really be allowed to do anything more complicated than boil an egg because otherwise explosions were sure to ensue.

 

“Don’t worry,” she said, “Edmund was the one who made it. It turns out he’s a bit of a stress baker.”

 

Robert blinked.

 

“Edmund?” he asked.

 

“Mr Townsend,” the man himself said, waving from where he had been standing awkwardly in the corner, “I’m glad to see that you’ve recovered.”

 

Robert blinked. Because that was Captain Hewlett. Not dressed in uniform, just wearing a pair of perfectly pressed slacks and a smart blazer, and incongruously clutching a chocolate cake.

 

“I…don’t like chocolate?” Robert said. It seemed like the thing to say. It was either that or ‘what the fuck is going on’ and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. Immediately, Hewlett’s face fell.

 

“Ah,” he said, “I was informed that it was your favourite.”

 

Robert’s eyes narrowed. He glared at Anna and Ben. “And who told him that?” he asked.

 

They both looked unrepentant: “Your favourite cake is carrot,” Anna told him, “And that is a monstrosity. We’re saving you from yourself.”

 

“I can, um,” Hewlett was saying at the same time, “I could always bake you another one?” He made an aborted step towards Robert’s postage stamp of a kitchen, as if he meant to start right there and then.

 

“Don’t listen to him!” Caleb said, grabbing the cake off Hewlett and starting to cut it into thick slices, “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Chocolate is the only valid cake flavour. And since we’re going to be the ones eating most of it, then it’s only fair that the majority vote wins the cake flavour debate.”

 

“…did any of those words make any sense?” Robert asked.

 

“Just give up,” Ben said, “I spent twenty minutes arguing for lemon drizzle and got shouted down.”

 

He accepted his own slice of cake, and then Robert stopped paying attention because Abe had taken a bite of chocolate cake and had a smudge of frosting next to his mouth. With an absent-minded hum, he was trying to remove it with his tongue, unsuccessfully, before giving up and using a finger to remove the offending smudge. Robert suppressed a groan, because then he licked it off his finger. Oh god. Stupid drugs.

 

Anna coughed, and Robert snapped his attention back to her, desperately ignoring the blush that had risen in his cheeks.

 

“Edmund has decided to join our investigative team,” she said, and the two of them exchanged a glance.

 

“Isn’t that…his job already?” Robert asked, “As head of the Setauket police?”

 

Many more significant glances were exchanged, and Robert scowled. It turned out that being bedridden and unconscious for a couple of days while your stomach was pumped meant that you missed out on a lot of crucial information. Typical: over twenty-five years of living in this small town, and the one time he was in hospital all the interesting things started to happen.

 

“We think there might be a mole,” Hewlett said, “After the coroner ruled André’s death a suicide despite clear evidence to the contrary-”

 

“Wait, André’s dead?” Robert interrupted, “You mean the serial killer’s struck again?”

 

Abe winced. “Actually, twice more,” he said almost apologetically, “Philomena Cheer was also killed-”

 

“-and placed into Gilbert du Motier’s bed,” Anna continued, “Though we don’t think that he’s responsible for the latest murder as he was under arrest at the time.”

 

“At least Caleb’s not in prison anymore though,” Abe said brightly, “So if it is du Motier, he’s no longer in any danger.”

 

“Wait, Caleb was arrested?”

 

“Ah, you don’t need to worry about me Woody, I could have taken him.”

 

“Yes, with all those skills you’ve undoubtedly picked up as a _park ranger_ -”

 

“You’re just sore that Burr managed to get me off in a couple of hours-”

 

Robert raised a defeated hand. His head was aching, and he suspected it wasn’t solely due to the drugs wearing off.

 

“Please,” he said, once they had all stopped talking, something which took quite a while, “Can you explain what happened?” He raised his other hand as the room exploded into noise and near yelled: “One at a time!”

 

There was another loaded silence, where undoubtedly, they were all exchanging pointed glances once again. Then, reluctantly, Ben started to speak: “What I’m about to tell you can’t leave this room-“

 

Robert let his words wash over him, fighting the urge to bury his face into his hands as Ben laid out everything: the fact that he and Caleb were CIA agents, that André was probably SAS, that there might be a vast, international conspiracy tied into all of this... God. When had his life turned into a cheesy spy thriller? And could he go back to the hospital now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for not killing Hewlett, ThebanSacredBand! Have some more Robert :)


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Washington is having a bit of a day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter technically takes place after chapter 17, there was a key plot point Nemainofthewater put in there that I certainly couldn't ignore

George Washington’s office had been thrown into upheaval the moment he’d received the message that Brewster had been arrested for punching one of their key suspects. One of his best men getting into some form of ridiculous shenanigans was, regrettably, par for the course for George – that was, after all, why Hamilton had been punished with desk work for the course of this particular mission – but he had had hopes that Brewster and Tallmadge wouldn’t cause too much of a fuss in their own hometown.

Alas, George should have known not to raise his expectations too high.

Then, no sooner had George dispatched Laurens to contact their lawyer to deal with this, a message had shot through the internal server from Hamilton, providing visual evidence that the day before Robert Rogers was murdered, he was in New York accompanied by one of George’s very own agents, who was _supposed_ to be on his honeymoon in Thailand.

That had sent George and his other key agent on the case, Nate Hale, into a frenzy, calling everyone and anyone and homeland security, trying to find just when Arnold had come back into the country, and where he was now.

There was nothing. Nothing at all. It was like he was a ghost.

George buried his head in his hands. And then.

“Sir?” Hale seemed to be aiming at curious, but there was a tinge of worry in his voice. “We. Ah. We haven’t heard from Hamilton in a while. He’s probably just looking through more social media to see if there’re more photos with Arnold in. But. I just. I have a bad feeling, sir.”

George narrowed his eyes at him. There was a time and place for intuition, and it was generally on the field rather than in the office. But then…

But then, there was a possible double agent within the CIA. A double agent who seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. A double agent with a particular dislike for one Alexander Hamilton.

George shot up from his chair, causing Hale to nearly fall off his own. “You’re right. We’ll go and check on him now.”

He strode out of the room, assuming (correctly) that Hale would follow him. This was probably unnecessary. Hamilton hadn’t slept last night, it was altogether possible that he’d just completely crashed. But Hamilton had gone far longer without sleep before. It was fine, though. This was _Hamilton_. He was just working. He was always working.

The door to the office Hamilton had been working in was ajar. The lights were off. Some silent alarm in George’s head started blaring.

He threw the door open the rest of the way, slamming his arm out to find a switch.

In the harsh electric lights appeared a bank of computers, all switched off, and two chairs at odd angles. And, lying on the floor between them, Alexander Hamilton.

He had been the one to hire Alexander, right out of university. Others had said he was a bad choice, that he wasn’t American enough, that he wasn’t right for the job. But George had seen past his background to his intelligence and tenacity, and it had been one of the best hiring decisions that he had made. And so it was his fault that Alexander was here. And so it was _his_ fault that Alexander was, was _dead_.

George had years of practise in looking stern, not giving anything away, and that was the only thing that kept him together as the young man he had hired, he had helped, he had watched grow, was just lying there, quiet as he never had been.

He may have kept his expression straight, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t draw his eyes away.

He barely registered that Hale had pushed past him until the man announced “He still has a pulse. Just barely, but it’s there.” That drew George out of his trance. If there was a chance that Alexander might _survive_ , he had to act, to be present.

“Right. I’ll call security, get them to contact the paramedics. You get the technicians on the phone and get them to find who was here.” Not that he needed them to know. Who else could it be, but Arnold? But he did need more _proof_ , if he was going to make anything stick. The man was a decorated CIA agent, George could hardly flaunt a girl’s Instagram photo as evidence he poisoned a fellow operative.

And so he called them, his voice unwavering, and stayed in the room, staring at Alexander’s prone form as security and then the paramedics came, and staring at the space he had been when they left.

An unknown amount of time later he flinched at a gentle tap to the elbow and a quiet “Sir?” Hale was stood beside him, looking at him with a curious tenderness in his eyes.

George cleared his throat. “Yes, what is it Agent Hale?”

“Laurens is at the hospital, he said the doctors won’t know anything for certain until tomorrow. And Mrs Washington called, sir, asking if you’d be home tonight.”

George thought of the havoc currently underway in Setauket, and the fact that one of his agents had apparently betrayed them, and of Alexander Hamilton, alone in a hospital bed. He shook his head.

“I’ll call her back, let her know I’m staying. I have so much work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is he breathing? Is he going to survive this? I certainly don't know, because poisons are Nemainofthewater's chosen field. You are at her mercy.  
> Have fun with the next chapter Nemainofthewater, I for one am excited to see what happens next ;)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad news

“I know exactly what you’re doing,” Abe said, “And I resent it.”

 

“Don’t be like that Woody!” Caleb said, beaming, “You don’t want Robert to fall over in the shower or something, hit his head and die, do you? Think about it: the poor guy alone in his apartment, helpless. Unable to cry out for help. His last though: why weren’t my friends here to help me…The only way we’ll be able to tell he’s dead is when the neighbours complain about the smell…”

 

“I hate you so much,” Abe hissed lowly, stealing a look at Robert who was bemusedly eating his third slice of cake and trying to fade into the background, seated as he was between Hewlett and Anna. He definitely didn’t look like someone who was going to trip and die, but then again he had been poisoned a few days ago. Which was a very un-Robert-like thing to do. Insomuch as being poisoned counted as ‘doing’ anything.

 

“Look,” Ben said, leaning forward and staring at him intensely with his unfairly blue eyes: “All we’re asking you to do is stay over with Robert this evening. Make sure that he’s all right. Christ, he’s just out the hospital: he needs a friend.”

 

“That’s not the point! The point is that you’re trying to keep me away from my house and I don’t like it. Look, we have no idea if someone actually broke in and even if they did, why would they bother? I’m just a second-rate detective: the only reason that I’m involved in this at all is that Anna won’t take no for an answer. How would these hypothetical ‘assassins’ of yours even know that I was part of it!”

 

His voice rose to a slight shriek by the end of the sentence but when Robert looked over at him, alarmed, he managed a weak thumbs up. It was fine. Everything was fine. Robert evidentially didn’t think so, because he carefully extricated himself from his conversation (or whatever conversation was possible when it consisted of two people awkwardly flirting at each other) and walked over. He was pale, Abe noticed worriedly, although his cheeks quickly flushed when he saw that Abe was looking at him. Oh no, was he coming down with a fever.

 

He stood, suddenly, drawing all attention to himself, and put the back of his hand on Robert’s forehead: it felt a bit warm, but Abe wasn’t entirely sure what the forehead of someone with a fever would feel like. Robert blinked at him, nonplussed, but allowed it patiently enough, although his cheeks did get redder and redder.

 

“I can’t believe that you’re actually arguing with me about this,” Caleb muttered to himself. Ben just rolled his eyes and looked long suffering. Hah! As if he had a leg to stand on if half of what he had heard about him and his ‘mysterious co-worker’ (aka definitely Nathan Hale from college) were true. He for one hadn’t forgotten about New Year’s Eve 2007, and he opened his mouth to tell him so.

 

‘I’m too sexy for my shirt’ rang out interrupting him, and then it was Ben’s turn to look annoyed.

 

“I thought I told you to change it back!” he said to Caleb, digging through his pockets to find his phone, “This is extremely unprofessional.”

 

“No idea what you’re talking about, Benny boy,” Caleb said ignoring the scorching glare and the rude gesture.

 

“Yes, hello?”

 

Ben’s face paled, turning into the colour of curdled milk and he swayed forward slightly.

 

“Fuck!” Caleb said, and sprang forward to catch him before he could fall.

 

“Is Mr Tallmadge alright?” Hewlett asked, getting up himself and coming over. The pinched, worried look had returned to his eyes.

 

“Yes sir,” Ben said, “I understand sir. And…I’m sorry.”

 

He dropped his phone. Literally dropped it, letting it fall uncaring. It was only Anna’s excellent reflexes that stopped it from shattering on Robert’s bare floor.

 

“What was that about?” Caleb asked, his voice deceptively light.

 

“It was…” Ben was struggling for words; they could all see it. The colour hadn’t returned to his face and he was swallowing convulsively.

 

“It was our boss,” he said finally, “We…” He took a deep breath. “Caleb, we…”

 

“What is it?” Caleb asked urgently, “What happened?”

 

“Benedict Arnold happened,” Ben finally managed to spit out, “He’s a traitor: Hamilton was combing through the security footage in Washington and he managed to spot him talking to Rogers and Simcoe.”

 

Caleb swore, low and angry, practically spitting out the words. Abe had no idea who they were talking about, but it looked like bad news.

 

“That snake!” he said, “That fucking-” he broke off, turning to pace: “It doesn’t matter though,” he said, “Because we know now. We have him. Thank god for Hamilton’s workaholic tendencies…”

 

“Caleb,” Ben’s voice cut through the air, “That’s not…that’s not the only thing that happened. Hamilton-Alex. He managed to send the proof to Washington. But-somehow Arnold knew what he was doing. He broke into headquarters.”

 

CRASH.

 

One of Robert’s mugs went flying through the air and exploded against the far wall.

 

“Caleb!” Ben’s voice was strong now, stern and more suited to a field of battle than his friend’s welcome home party.

 

“That’s not helping!”

 

“I’m not helping? I’m not the one who let a traitor back into headquarters! Who knows what he’s done to the data by now…It might take weeks or months to recover it all, and by then the trail will be cold-”

 

“Alex’s dead.”

 

Silence.

 

“…what?” Caleb croaked, “No, he can’t be. I texted him this morning, I sent him a picture of Burr eating a taco, he can’t be-”

 

“He was killed yesterday evening,” Ben continued, the words spilling from his lips, “Washington said that he was poisoned. That he was injected with ricin. He was alive when they found him, but only just. He died before they could get him to the hospital. Washington wants us back by morning.”

 

Caleb collapsed, a puppet without his strings. Ben reached over and gripped his hand tightly and Caleb clutched back at him like a drowning man to a lifeboat.

 

“What are we supposed to tell Eliza,” he murmured brokenly, “Oh god, what are we supposed to tell his kids…”

 

“You tell him that he died doing his duty. That he was a brave man? And that we will catch his killer.”

 

Hewlett’s lips were a hard line, his shoulders squared and ready for combat: “You said that your colleague was killed with ricin. The same murder weapon that was used to kill Rogers and to poison Robert. There’s something going on in this town, something wicked and corrupt that I don’t know about. But I’m going to find out, and I’m going to bring the perpetrators to justice. No. We’re going to bring them to justice.”

 

Ben looked up, his eyes shuttered and his face a stone mask.

 

“You’re right,” he said, “There’s no way that I can return to Washington now. Not when there’s so much work to do here. And not when we might be compromised.”

 

“Benny,” Caleb said, “You don’t think-Not Nate and Laurens. They wouldn’t-”

 

“I don’t know what to think,” Ben said, “All I know is that the only people I can trust, the _only ones_ …They’re in this room right now. And that we have work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, blame ThebanSacredBand for this one: I was teasing her and said that I'd kill off Alex and she told me to go ahead. *shrugs* I am a simple writer and must do as I am told 😜


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette is locked in his hotel room

Gilbert Lafayette had been stuck in his room ever since John André had been found dead. Apparently the deaths of a shady visitor and a not-particularly famous actress were worth a police presence, but that of an upstanding and wealthy member of the community called for a full scale lockdown.

In the room to one side of him, Peggy Shippen had been crying all day, occasionally exclaiming “John!” and “This wasn’t supposed to happen!” and various things which suggested to Gilbert that her feelings for the newly-deceased hotelier were genuine.

In the room on his other side, well, let’s just say that Gilbert suspicions that du Ponceau was not only Von Steuben’s secretary had been confirmed. At least the pair had a way to keep entertained when they weren’t allowed to leave their rooms. (The fact that they had managed to end up in the same room when they hadn’t been officially sharing was likely another testimony to the advantages of wealth.)

And so Gilbert was trapped between two rather loud situations, and had discovered that the walls of this hotel were not nearly as thick as one might expect given the size of the bill.

He really, really wanted to get out of here.

It wouldn’t be too hard, surely. All he needed to do was confirm his identity as an Interpol agent with someone of authority, and he should be allowed to leave. The trouble was, well, this was his first major foreign mission. He _really_ didn’t want to return back to base empty-handed. He could hardly be blamed for it, given the circumstances, but still. It was a matter of pride.

The other problem was that the only authority figure he had seen around today was Lieutenant Simcoe, and he didn’t trust the man as far as he could throw him. He had a mean, intelligent glint in his eyes, and he really understood Tallmadge’s friends desire to punch the man in the jaw.

And Tallmadge… well. After his friend had been arrested and Simcoe had disappeared to have someone look at his face, the man had repeatedly asked Gilbert what he was hiding, why he had poisoned his friend. All Gilbert could do was keep repeating the truth, that he hadn’t been thinking, that the whiskey had been left on the side and poor Townsend looked like he needed a pick-me-up.

While Tallmadge had eventually given up, he still seemed suspicious. It was almost like he thought he knew something.

And there was something about the name… Tallmadge wasn’t a common name, but Gilbert was sure he had seen it somewhere before. Where _was_ it…

Suddenly Gilbert bolted upright. The Valley Forge report!

Valley Forge was a major CIA mission that Interpol had only been side-players in, providing information about the sleeper cells that the CIA were trying to take down. The name B. Tallmadge had popped up multiple times in the report on the mission, noted for his extreme competence and recklessness.

Gilbert scrambled over to his laptop, logging onto the encrypted Interpol site as fast as he could. (He ignored the un-replied to emails asking for a mission status update. He had a good enough excuse not to look at them as he was undercover, and he really didn’t want to deal with bureaucracy right now). Clicking through reports, he found it. And there attached was a secret photo taken of the main group.

The man in the centre must be Director George Washington, who had taken point on the mission and was a man that Gilbert very much admired. Surrounding him were five young men, one of which was definitely the same Tallmadge who had pinned Gilbert against a wall, and another of whom was his bearded friend who had punched Simcoe. And a third was none other than Alexander Hamilton, a man Gilbert had met on his semester at college in America. It was a small world. They’d fallen out of touch – he’d have to send his friend an email once this whole fiasco was over.

In any case, this was good. Or perhaps bad. If the CIA were fixated on Gilbert as a possible suspect, they must have missed whoever it was that actually did these terrible murders.

But Gil could help them. He could help them narrow down their suspects by one, at least. And he had spent the past few days shut up in rooms with these people. He had to know something that could help get all this figured out, so he could go _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Not quite as angsty as Nemainofthewater's last chapter but I'm sure we will soon be back to our regularly scheduled tragedy.  
> Enjoy!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funeral

It was raining.

 

Of course it was.

 

Grey and raining in the way that only DC in winter could be, every inhale painful. Hamilton would have hated it. He always complained bitterly about the weather, buried under about twenty layers of coats, hands jammed into his pockets and head topped with that ridiculous hat that he liked to wear. The one with a cheerful orange bobble on it that Angie had made him for Christmas a year ago and that he hadn’t taken off since, unless it was to corner some poor bystander and enthuse to them how talented his daughter was.

 

They were burying the hat with him.

 

Nate could see the Hamiltons now, from where he was standing quiet and sober at Washington’s side. Eliza, pale and wan and wrapped in an overlarge black coat as tightly held her children at her side. Philip wasn’t crying, but he was standing quiet and tense, his normally exuberant nature nowhere to be seen. Little Angie, only five, was gripping her brother’s hand like a limpet, small and scared with tears running down her face. Her namesake, Angelica Schuyler fresh off the plane from London, was standing behind them, glaring at anyone who looked like they were even thinking of approaching.

 

There was no sign of Laurens, his presence a tangible hole beside Eliza. He didn’t know where he was, not really. Washington had given him compassionate leave: it was an open secret around the office (well, as secret as anything including Hamilton could be) that he and the Hamiltons had had…something going on. That they were more than friends, that Laurens slotted perfectly into place between the couple.

 

No one had seen Laurens, which considering that he worked for the CIA was quite a feat, but then again he was one of the best. And, rightly or wrongly, he was guilty. It had been his job to look through the footage and nobody: not him, not Washington, not Mulligan could convince him that if he had worked a little faster, a little better then he would have been the one to find the photo, and then…

 

Nate hoped that the reason that no one had seen him was that Mulligan had taken him somewhere to grieve and to work through his memories. And not that he was off on a pointless mission of revenge. Eliza needed him. The kids needed him. Everyone could see that apart from Laurens.

 

Next to him, Washington hovered. He had aged a decade in the last few days and he looked old and frail in a way that Nate had never seen before. Behind him stood his wife Martha, her presence the only thing that was keeping him mobile. He hadn’t tried to talk to Hamilton’s family.

 

That was what Nate remembered about the funeral. The grief and the absence and, pounding in the background of his memory, the rain. The ever-present rain.

 

#

 

He shouldn’t have been surprised.

 

“Laurens,” he said, then winced. “John,” he continued, deliberately softening his tone, “What are you doing here?”

 

Because of course he was here, Nate’s meticulously organised files in messy piles on his desk, loose papers scattered everywhere. He hadn’t managed to break into his computer yet, that was the only blessing. His alarm had worked perfectly, alerting him the moment anyone had so much as touched his computer.

 

“What do you think?” Laurens snapped, his voice rough and pained.

 

The man looked wrecked. Shadows under his eyes that spoke to innumerable sleepless nights, a manic, frantic energy to him and a trembling in his hands that made Nate want to drag him to Eliza and make sure that they took care of each other.

 

He didn’t. He knew better because god, if anything had happened to _Ben_ … He closed his eyes and breathed through the panic.

 

So yeah, he couldn’t judge because he had no idea what Laurens was going through and god forgive him he couldn’t help but feel a deep-seated gladness for that fact.

 

“I think that you’re upset,” Nate said carefully, “That you’re looking for something that isn’t here-”

 

“Upset? I’m not- God. Hale. I’ve moved so far past upset-”

 

Laurens broke off, choking back a sob. He ran his hands through his hair, again and again and again, making it stick up. Hamilton had hated that habit, had smoothed down Laurens’ hair carefully, not letting him leave until every strand was back in its rightful place. He and Caleb had mocked them whenever they saw them, but Hamilton had ignored them both, not stopping until Laurens’ anxieties were smoothed away.

 

“I know,” Nate said, “I know-”

 

“No! You don’t know! How could you know, stop telling me that you _know_ or that you’re sorry because that’s _useless_ , ok? Is the fact that you know going to bring Alex back? Is your knowledge going to change the fact that he’s _dead_?”

 

His voice broke on the last word and he sat heavily, head bowed. Nate could see the shimmer of tears in his eyes, angrily wiped away.

 

He didn’t know what to do. He needed Caleb who would break through Laurens’ defences with a crude joke or a surprisingly insightful comment. He needed Ben, who would know the right thing to say. Hell, he needed Hamilton who was the only one who could get through to Laurens, and that was exactly the problem, wasn’t it? He needed Hamilton not to be dead.

 

Nate swallowed. Then he crossed over to his computer and quickly typed in his password. Pulling up a few files on screen, he copied them to a thumb drive, not letting himself hesitate. This was untenable. There was no other way.

 

“Here,” he said, shoving the device into Laurens’ hands, “All the information I have on Arnold. Everything I’ve managed to dig up on him. It’s not a lot because he’s a paranoid bastard, but it’s something at least. He’s probably heading for Setauket: there are loose ends there that he’ll want to tie up. And Simcoe is our last living lead.”

 

“Why-”

 

“Because you’re right,” Nate interrupted him, “Because I don’t know, and I don’t want to.”

 

He closed Laurens’ lax fingers around the drive: “Washington is in mourning. And he’s not thinking clearly: he’s not going to want to lose anyone else. The only reason Ben and Caleb aren’t safely here and under virtual house arrest like the rest of us is because they haven’t come back. I can’t lose them. Look after him.”

 

“Thank you,” Laurens whispered.

 

“ _Don’t_ ,” Nate said harshly, “Just promise me that you’ll come back. And that you’ll bring them back with you.”

 

Laurens looked up at him. There was a clear gleam in his eyes, a renewed purpose.

 

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry everyone. I cried a bit writing this.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna takes point

Even if they were an investigation team comprising two CIA agents, a police captain, and a private detective and his pseudo-assistant, Anna still wasn’t surprised that she was the one making all the decisions.

Granted, it wasn’t entirely Ben and Caleb’s faults that they were a bit of a mess at the moment. As hard as they were trying to keep themselves together and keep the investigation going, but Anna had known them forever. They were shaking apart at the seams.

Ben was ruder than his norm, snapping when anything was slightly louder than he wanted it to be, when anyone was even slightly distracting him. And as reckless as Ben had always been, he had never been mean. Except for when he was breaking.

And Caleb? Caleb was quiet. Shutting up and shutting down. He had been like this when his mother died, and nothing anyone could say would bring him out of his shell, no matter how much they had tried. And they’d tried.

Anna wished she could have met this Alexander Hamilton, who had wormed his way into her friends’ hearts in this way. Who they mourned for like a brother. Ben, Caleb, Abe and Anna had been a family of their own since they were small. How had Hamilton wheedled his way into their hearts like she had?

But Alexander Hamilton was dead, and Anna would never get the chance to meet him, and she had more important things to deal with right now. And she was the one who had to deal with them.

Because for all Edmund Hewlett was in charge if the investigation, and for all that he was probably the sweetest man that Anna had ever met, he didn’t seem to be the most competent man. Or maybe that was just the almost-visible heart-eyes he got whenever Anna is around.

And Abe was never really going to be competent. He was just about functional as a detective of cheating spouses, but Anna was never expecting him to take point on this. If anything he was just a convenient excuse to get close to the crime scene.

She was sort-of hoping that Robert would be more useful, but she could hardly blame him for accidentally getting poisoned. That’s apparently the sort of thing that happened in this line of work. Didn’t exactly promise good tidings for the rest of however long it would take to catch whoever was behind this.

In any case, it was Anna’s investigation now. And she was going to do her best to solve the mystery before any more bodies appeared in Setauket.

 

She let herself out of Robert’s apartment, where they had all ended up staying, early in the morning, before anyone else had woken up. It was at least partly because none of them had actually gone to bed, and she didn’t want to deal with them complaining about sore backs and stiff legs. But it was largely because the police presence in the hotel would hopefully be far lower at this time of day.

Surely enough, it was. And Officer Baker was on duty again, who seemed more than willing to let her in when she said she wanted to offer some comfort to Abigail. He was rather kind, if a little hapless, and Anna couldn’t help but hope that he of all people wasn’t caught up in the mess of corruption that was rife in the police force.

Anna did, in fact, make her way to Abigail, and she did offer her what comfort she could. Though that comfort was less the sisterly hugs that Baker was probably imagining, and more the exchanging of information.

She didn’t tell Abigail quite the extent of Ben and Caleb’s secrets – after all, they weren’t really hers to tell – but she filled in as much as she was able to. Not that they’d managed to get as far as they had hoped, what with preparing for Robert’s return from hospital and the revelations of Ben’s late-night phone call.

Abigail, on the other hand, was far more helpful. She was aided, of course, by the fact that she was still acting as the housekeeper of the hotel, in spite of it being the site of several murders under investigation. She was good at being quiet, and unnoticed, and the policemen on duty had paid her no notice as she had cleaned the corridor, taking perhaps more time than was necessary dusting the tops of door-frames. And so she had all the information about Von Steuben and du Ponceau’s late-night trysts, and Charles Lee’s angry phone calls, and Peggy Shippen’s hysterics.

Really, if anyone was going to solve this case, thought Anna, it was going to be Abigail. It felt like she was the only one getting anything done.

“Oh, and one more thing, Anna,” said Abigail, just before Anna left to do some more personal investigations of her own, “Mr du Motier asked if I could pass a message on to Ben. He wants to speak to him. Alone.”

Anna paused, her face crinkling. “ _Ben_? Really?” Abigail nodded. “Ben tried to strangle him the other day. What the hell?” She sighed to herself. “I’ll let him know. Hopefully they can sort out the fight between them. And maybe Ben will get some useful information out of him.”

She gave Abigail a brief hug, and then left, back into the heart of the hotel. There had to be some clue to what had happened somewhere, and by God Anna was going to be the one to find it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The summary was originally going to be 'Anna has a plan-a', but unfortunately Anna has just as little as a plan as we do, so...
> 
> It seems to have become a pattern that Nemainofthewater is in charge of angst, and I am in charge of plot, so hope you enjoyed a small amount of plot advancement. (A shock, I know. Who knows what's actually going on in this story? Certainly not me. I'm having a great time writing it though lmao)
> 
> Is there more angst in store Nemainofthewater?

**Author's Note:**

> I bet you regret letting me go first! Best of luck to you ThebanSacredBand, looking forward to seeing your chapter :)


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